


I'll Come for You

by Angelaland



Series: Angel of Moscow (Ангел московский) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Dean Winchester's First Time With a Man, Dean is In Over His Head, Don't want to spoil anything, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Medic Dean, Nipple Play, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Russian Castiel (Supernatural), Russian Mafia, Tattooed Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-29 14:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19021948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelaland/pseuds/Angelaland
Summary: Castiel is a member of the Bratva who holds a lot of power inside and out of prison. Dean is a former Army medic whose big mouth got him into deep trouble with the Aryan brotherhood just weeks into his sentence. He needs protection, or his measly two years in lockup could end as a death sentence.





	1. Вам нужна защита (You Need Protection)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the result of requesting a prompt from my readers. I needed a quick break from two long WIPs, and the wonderful ILoveFANFic delivered! Thank you so much, dear. I have enjoyed writing this so much, and it's really gotten me out of my 'rut'. My short (ha ha ha) story has turned into a three chapter story, but I'm limiting it there. (Maybe?)
> 
> Here is the original prompt: what about a prison fic? With Cas being the slightly older (like 5-10 years older) inmate who crushes super hard on Dean and does everything in his power to keep him safe, and satisfied *wink wink* Brownie points if he is Russian 😁
> 
> I get the brownie points because Cas is definitely Russian. 
> 
> Speaking of... Here are all the Russian translations for this chapter:
> 
> Dovol'no!: enough! 
> 
> Pust' prekrasnyy doktor rabotayet v mire: Let the beautiful doctor work in peace. 
> 
> Ya ne govoryu po angliyski: I don’t speak English. 
> 
> Pozhaluysta?: Please? 
> 
> Kak ty smeyesh' govorit' za menya!: How dare you speak for me! 
> 
> Solntsevskaya Bratva: Russian mafia group from Solntsevo, Moscow. 
> 
> Otlichno, myshka: Excellent, mouse (mouse is a term of endearment) 
> 
> WARNING: There is one racist word in this chapter, but it is spoken by a neo-Nazi, and I felt that a tiny bit of hateful speech needed to happen for it to be authentic. It's not that bad, but I didn't want anyone to be surprised.

“Hey! Hey, you can’t be in here,” Dean calls to the inmate who waltzes into the clinic, smug superiority leading the way while he supports another inmate around the shoulders. Disdainful eyes meet Dean's and ignore his statement completely. He continues over to an open bed, moving slowly to accommodate the shuffling gait of his slouching companion. Dean blocks their way, putting himself physically between them and the bed. 

“Move, boy,” the man growls. 

“I said, you can’t be in here. You need to go back to the waiting room.” Dean stands with arms loose at his sides, ready and almost spoiling for a fight. He’d love a reason to put the cocky prick in his place. 

Dr. Shurley comes running over in a froth, panic and anxiety bubbling over. Gently tugging at Dean’s arm to move him, he babbles, “Um, they can stay. It’s fine, it’s fine. Let them do whatever they want.” 

Dean scowls at him in a narrow-eyed demand. “Why?” 

Shurley leans in close. “That’s Krushnic.” 

Dean just raises his brow, waiting for more information. The doctor mouths, “Russian mob.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. Shurley had moved him out of the way enough to allow the asshole to set his burden down. When he rolls the other man onto the hospital bed, Dean sees the reason for their visit. Vivid red streaks across the white linen turn the hideous orange clothing into a mottled brown. 

Pursing his lips, Dean pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves and shoves the smarmy dick out of his way. He lifts the prison-issued shirt up to see the wound. It’s difficult to see the damage through the ink covering his skin. A quick glance verifies that there is very little skin on the man’s abdomen not covered in tattoos. He fights the itch to run his fingers over the lines. Focus, Dean. Stab wound. 

As he works, he feels the heated glare from directly behind him. The tension is distracting, but he won’t give the satisfaction of responding to it. He hears muttered words in a language that must be Russian, based on the nattering of Dr. Shurley. Resolutely, he ignores it. 

“Dovol’no!” The first word from his patient is a growling, rumbling command that makes Dean’s skin shiver into goose bumps. His eyes jump up to look at him. Thankfully, the man’s focus is on his friend; the irritated look is not for him. Dean is disgusted by that thought. Why the fuck should he care how this man looks at him? He’s an inmate, same as Dean. Flinching at that truth, Dean sets his jaw. He’s been locked up for less than two weeks and it still rankles whenever he remembers. 

“Pust' prekrasnyy doktor rabotayet v mire.” The words don’t mean anything to Dean, but the tone does. Innuendo and desire, thick and syrupy, drip from every rounded syllable. He can feel it wrapping around his spine and grabbing hold. Red flags wave in his mind, refusing to be ignored. Continuing his repair, Dean allows his eyes to look up again. Searing blue flames meet and hold him - more intense, more dangerous than real fire. 

He returns his attention to his work, glad for the reasonable excuse to break the circuit. Dean takes in small details of his patient with furtive glances. Shockingly black hair, tan skin, wide lips, too pink for such a strong face. And blue. Eyes so clear and blue that Dean comes back to them over and over again, just to be sure that they are real. 

‘What the ever-loving hell, Winchester,’ he chastises himself. He’s never looked at another man with any kind of interest other than friend or enemy. Suddenly, he can’t keep his eyes to himself? 

“I’m not a doctor,” Dean says quietly. 

“You speak Russian?” his patient is happily surprised. Dean wishes he could say yes to keep that pleased look on his face. 

“No,” he admits, “but the word doctor jumped out at me. I’m not. I’m a combat medic. Or, I was.” 

Scrutiny is the man’s only response for minutes. 

“What is your name, medic?” Dean could listen to his accent for hours, the way it softens every harsh sound even while his voice grumbles and groans like thunder. 

“Winchester. Dean Winchester.” Dean is suturing now, and he can’t help but show off his nimble technique. His fingers fly in complicated knots, and his stitches are precise and tight. He knows that his patient is watching. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of Dean since he sat down to work on him. 

“I have not seen you before.” 

“It’s a large prison.” 

“Mmm. You are new.” It isn’t a question. The intelligence in his eyes is overt and obvious. It isn’t a surprise that this man holds such power in this corrupt system. 

“And who are you?” 

A quirk of the lips before he hedges, “That is a very complicated answer.” 

Dean grins. “How about we start with a name?” 

“Krushnic. Dmitri Castiel Krushnic.” 

“That’s a mouthful,” Dean teases. 

“Oh, so much more than a mouthful,” he promises, leering down at Dean. 

Dean’s mouth drops and his face flushes crimson. He is a tremendous flirt, has been since puberty, but he's at a loss for how to respond to a man flirting with him. He tries to apologize, tries to say something, but visions of him on his knees in front of Krushnic are blocking his ability to speak. Prickling heat leaves his face and creeps down his neck. 

“You can call me Castiel. That’s much easier to take, no?” 

Dean clears his throat and nods. “Sure. Castiel.” 

Dean cleans and bandages his skin efficiently, reciting all of the care steps he needs to be aware of. It’s a formality and they both know it. It’s obvious from the scars littered about his torso that Castiel has been stabbed before. Although, this time it will hardly scar. Dean has made sure of it. 

Castiel’s fingers smooth over the bandage, letting Dean get a good look at the multiple tattoos covering them. Each finger has a ring with a specific symbol as the centerpiece, everything from a single dot to a miniature version of St. Basil’s Cathedral. They are beautiful, and most likely hold great significance. They look like a code, and Dean wants to break it. 

Castiel’s friend returns to the other side of the bed with a fresh orange pull-over. Castiel gingerly lifts the ruined one over his head and replaces it. Dean barely has a chance to glimpse the ink covering the hard lines of muscle before it is hidden again. He stands, looming over Dean now on the rolling stool. Dean stands as well, needing to level the playing field. 

“Questions?” Dean asks as a kind dismissal, equal parts dejected and thrilled to be rid of the man wreaking havoc on his brain. 

Castiel stands too close, and Dean feels his proximity like a physical force. His eyes drag down Dean’s body, slow and sure. “I know where to find you if I think of anything. Thank you, Dean.” 

 

***** 

 

At dinner that night, Dean receives the first gift. He is pulled forward to the front of the line and given the best portions of the barely passable meal. The best part though, is the special dessert that is waiting on him. With a matronly pat on the cheek, the proud cook hands him the Sharlotka, a lovely apple cake that smells like heaven. “It is my mother’s recipe, straight from St. Petersburg. Mr. Krushnic thought that you would like it.” 

He’s not wrong. Dean sits down in his customary place, and all conversation stops. 

“Where did you get that? I didn’t see that on the line,” Benny complains. He tries to dip his fork into the delectable treat and Dean smacks the back of his hand harshly. 

“It’s a thank you gift, and I’ll thank you to keep your mitts off of it.” 

“You’re not going to share?” he asks in disbelief. 

“Hell, no.” Dean puts the first forkful into his mouth and moans around it. His eyes close and his head tips back. “This is magical,” he sighs. “I think I want to move to Russia. I’ll eat this every day.” 

“Russia?” Garth questions skeptically. “Why are you getting a thank you from Russia?” 

“Patient in the clinic,” Dean comments, not looking up from the treat. He misses the wary looks passed between his roommate and new friends. 

Benny nudges his arm. “Be careful, brother. You don’t ever want to get yourself in debt to the Russians.” 

From across the cafeteria, Castiel watches Dean, pleased that he is getting so much enjoyment from his simple gift. The cake is delicious, but his gorgeous medic reacts as if he’s been given something precious. He’s already planning the menu for tomorrow. He thinks that Medovik sounds like an excellent choice. Twenty delicate alternating layers of honeyed cake and sweet cream. His licks his lips. He can’t wait to watch Dean devour it. 

Dean receives his paycheck and new schedule from the clinic, shocked to see that his hours have been changed. He somehow leapfrogged past all of the other medical staff with years of seniority, and he has been given the coveted daytime shift. After blinking back his confusion, he double-checks with Dr. Shurley and the job officer. It’s not a mistake. 

When he cashes the check, he tries to put some of it towards his commissary account, which he knows is running on fumes. They wouldn’t take his money. “Your account is fully-funded,” the worker explains. 

“I haven’t put anything in it,” Dean argues. “There’s no way there’s more than ten dollars left." 

Scowling at the computer, he checks again and confirms, “Son, you could buy out the entire commissary and still not hit your limit. It’s taken care of. So, what’ll it be today?” 

Dean fills out the requisition form quickly, stocking up on toiletries and a few snacks. The worker tries to encourage him to ask for more, but he refuses. In case this is a clerical error, he doesn’t want to overspend. On his way back to his cell, the small bag is heavy in his hands. He already knows it’s not an error. He knows exactly where these favors are coming from, and the thought has his stomach clenching. He needs to put a stop to it; Benny’s words of warning are still fresh in his mind. 

At dinner the following night, his resolve crumbles when he sees the dessert Mrs. Morozov presents. He drools all the way through his meal, and again refuses to share even a taste with those around him. Sticky honey gushes from the edges of each bite, and he has to lick his lips repeatedly to collect every drop. He feels eyes on him throughout the meal, but he refuses to look up until he is ready to leave the dining hall. When he does finally look, the heavy weight of lust in Krushnic’s eyes turns his knees wobbly. He nods his head in thanks and hurries away. 

The final straw is the mp3 player and headphones that sit on his pillow the next afternoon. They aren’t allowed phones, so he doesn’t have any of his music. He has a vague notion that he mentioned how much he missed music to Dr. Shurley at some point this week, but he didn’t do it in front of Krushnic or any of his men. When Dean flips through the device, he finds literally hundreds of albums pre-loaded. There are so many that Dean can’t seem to find a single one of his favorites that is missing. There is grateful and then there is invasive; Castiel just crossed that line. 

It takes him much longer than it should to suss out Castiel’s room. Once he’s managed to get on the right hall of the correct level, he’s forced to wade through two more checkpoints. Most of Krushnic’s soldiers get by on feigned ignorance. They give their stone-faced glares and repeat the phrase, “Ya ne govoryu po angliyski” so many times that even Dean has memorized it. He’ll be damned if he believes that none of these men speaks English. Mrs. Morozov taught him a few key words in Russian when he went back to thank her tonight, and he is grateful for the lesson. He asks to speak with Mr. Krushnic, and adds a pleading, “Pozhaluysta?”. Apparently, adding please works on even hardened criminals. 

At the door to the cell, which is swung wide open and crowded by rough men with suspicious eyes, the asshole from the clinic pushes through and yells at him in Russian. His hand gestures are menacing and dismissive, but Dean refuses to flinch. He’s had ten year-olds screaming at him while waving bazookas in his face; this prick doesn’t scare him in the least. Instead, Dean folds his arms over his chest and waits for him to take a breath. 

“You done?” he snarks. Several of the men snicker. Yeah, they don’t speak a word of English. 

“Send him in.” The imperious tone halts the laughter and parts the sea of thugs immediately. They scatter like sparrows, and soon it is just Dean and Castiel. He walks into the cell, noticing that the other bed is leaned against the wall. Krushnic lives alone. In a prison this overcrowded, that says everything that needs to be said about his importance and his reach. The man turns in his chair, but doesn’t get up. He does give Dean a beatific smile. “I didn’t know you made house calls, doc.” 

“I’m not a -” 

“Doctor. I remember.” His head tilts to the side and his eyes narrow. “It is a term of respect for combat medics, though, yes?” 

Dean is stunned. “Uh, yeah. It is.” 

“So then, it is appropriate.” 

Dean concedes with a nod. This man either has encyclopedic knowledge of obscure facts or he has been looking into Dean’s former life. Either option terrifies him. 

“What can I do for you, Dean?” 

“I came to say thank you.” 

Castiel leans forward, his forearms on his knees. “You are very welcome.” 

He takes a deep breath to steel his nerves, “But, it needs to stop.” 

“Why?” 

That is the kicker, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t he enjoy the few simple pleasures that he has in this horrific place? The price tag is what scares him. Nothing is free. “The special treatment is very nice, don’t get me wrong. Especially the desserts. That woman knows her way around a kitchen. I just...don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” 

“And what would the wrong idea be?” 

Dean feels the tension mounting. Castiel is not liking the direction Dean is taking, and it shows in his eyes which are growing colder by the second. Feeling no sense of true privacy, Dean lowers his voice. “I’m flattered by the interest, I really am. It’s just not ever going to happen.” 

Castiel stares, taking Dean’s measure. “You think this is a seduction?” 

Dean is starting to feel a little foolish. Did he misread the situation? “Isn’t it?” 

The calculated smile that reaches his lips doesn’t touch his eyes in the slightest. “Of course not. You did excellent work patching me up, and I simply wanted to do something nice for you.” 

Dean isn’t convinced, and with a furrowed brow, he asks, “Do you always go to such impressive lengths just to say thank you?” 

Castiel stands slowly, erasing the distance between them in two easy steps. “What can I say? I’m a... very generous man.” 

Dean feels the words like a caress and a promise. The timber of Castiel’s voice, cavernous deep, rattles through his bones. Dean almost steps back, but plants his feet instead. Fear and indecision are deadly weaknesses to show in front of a man like Krushnic. 

Dean’s smile is no less false. “Then I apologize for the misunderstanding. I’m not used to being showered with gifts, and it took me by surprise. I hope we can be friends?” 

“I would like that Dean.” 

 

***** 

 

On the one month anniversary of his incarceration, Dean learns a devastating lesson. 

In the year 2019, even in a morally and socially bankrupt place like federal prison, Dean cannot believe the bigoted filth that he is hearing coming from the showers. Even in Texas, where he grew up, racism had become archaic, an artifact of the past, an embarrassment to this generation. Here, though, the past is alive. 

When he rounds the corner, the scene becomes bleaker. This is not just bigotry. It is generational hate fueled by ignorance. Four members of the Aryan Brotherhood have a skinny black man down on the tiled floor, taking turns stomping on him with their ratty black boots. 

“Hey, fellas. What’s going on?” Dean asks just to make his presence known, and he puts on a carefully neutral smile. Cowardice often flees in front of witnesses, which is what Dean is banking on. The color of his skin should buy him a pass in their eyes, but he needs to tread lightly. He can’t get too cocky. 

“This turd stole Alastair’s shower. We was teaching him a lesson,” one of the neo-Nazis confesses. 

Dean looked around the room. There are at least ten open shower stalls. "Looks like there’s room enough. I’m sure it was just a harmless mistake. Right?...” 

Dean looks down at the bruised man. “R-Reggie,” he answers. 

“See? Reggie didn’t know the shower was taken. He knows now. It’s all good.” Dean offers a hand down to Reggie while keeping his eyes up and alert. 

“What right do you have to interfere with our punishment?” A vile, nasal voice slithers into his ears. The whip-thin, gray haired ghoul of a man that steps forward has eyes so flat and dead that Dean might as well be looking into the abyss. 

Dean holds his hands up in placating gesture. “I’m not trying to do anything but mediate. It looked like Reggie might be having some difficulty speaking for himself with a boot on his throat.” 

As soon as he says the words, he knows he’s pushed the scale down a little too far into judgmental. He reads it in Alastair’s eyes. When the leader stiffens and straightens his back, his minions follow suite. Dean’s upheld hands shift slightly into a defensive posture. “Easy now, boys. I’m not looking for trouble.” 

“Well, it sure looks like you caught some anyway,” a younger man steps up, chest puffed out. He lunges at Dean, body telegraphing the punch with more than enough warning to let Dean sidestep him. Growling impotently, his momentum carries him into the wall behind them. The next one, shirtless so that he can use his offensive ink as a threat, goes down with a single, well-placed right hook. Behind him, he can hear Reggie exacting vengeance on his attacker, allowing Dean to focus on the remaining two. The last minion gets a couple swings in, but Dean blocks effectively. Done with this nonsense, Dean sweeps his leg, getting him on the ground. When he gets up on hands and knees, Dean punts his head like a football, turning his lights out. Alastair is backing up, trying to fend Dean off. “You’ve made your point, boy. Take your colored friend and go.” 

Dean closes the space between them, adrenaline preventing him from using proper rational thought. “Obviously I haven’t made enough of a point if you’re still using that kind of language.” 

“You know who I am. This is a damn fool idea.” Alastair tries to save himself by pulling a power card, but Dean isn’t going to be cowed. 

Dean hates this place. He hates the politics here, based as they are on who is more vicious, whose body count is higher. He feels helpless as an individual who can never hope to match the influence of a group, powerless and alone. He growls out his frustration as he swings, connecting with a satisfying crunch of bone. Blood sprays, coating his face as he follows through. 

He looks down on Alastair, who is choking on the blood pouring from his nose. Satisfaction thrums through him for a heartbeat. Until the man laughs maniacally, red teeth making him look crazed and feral. “You’ve just signed your death sentence.” 

Dean figures that if he’s already going to be condemned, one more kick won’t change anything. He relishes the pained groan that puts an end to the laughter before he guides Reggie to the clinic to be checked out. 

 

***** 

 

“You did what?!” Benny screeches in their cell. He peeks out into the corridor and looks around. Coming back in, he whisper-yells, “Do you have a fucking death wish, Dean?” 

“You didn’t see what they were doing to that poor guy. I couldn’t just walk away.” 

Benny wipes a hand over his face, trying to get his panicky brain wrapped around the precarious situation his roommate is now in. “Alastair isn’t some low level guy, Winchester. He’s the head of the entire goddamned white supremacist element in here.” 

“I know,” Dean sighs, laying back in his bed. Calm on the outside, the ramifications of his impulsive actions are starting to catch up to him. Paranoia is making his heart race, a cocktail of flight hormones pumping through his veins. Fuck. He can’t outrun this. A whole mob of hatemongering rednecks is going to be out for his head. 

“This is bad. This is so horribly bad,” Benny wails. 

“I get that,” Dean snaps. “I just don’t know what the hell I can do about it other than wait for them to come for me.” 

Silence reigns for long drawn-out minutes. Benny breaks the quiet with some sage advice. “You need protection.” 

“Obviously. I can’t take on a hundred of them by myself.” 

“I’ll stand up for you, you know I will, but the two of us standing alone are still cannon fodder.” 

Dean smiles sadly. “I appreciate that, but I’d never drag you into this shit show. I did this to myself.” 

“Is Krushnic still showing his appreciation?” Benny knows how uncomfortable the Russian mobster makes his roommate, but he’s put himself in an untenable position. 

“I thought you told me not to ever get into debt with the Russians,” Dean scoffs. 

Benny levels his gaze. “That was before you single-handedly took on the neo-Nazis.” 

“Does he wield more power than Alastair?” 

“Infinitely more. He’s something like second in command to the entire Moscow mafia. There’s a name for it, but I can’t speak Russian for shit.” 

Dean scowls. Castiel might just be his saving grace. 

 

***** 

 

Dean’s posture and attitude are entirely different as he approaches Castiel’s guards this time. He is humble, quiet, and respectful. The dick he now knows as Bartholemew grins knowingly. “Here to beg for his help, are you?” 

Dean keeps his eyes lowered, nodding as he swallows hard around his pride. 

Enjoying every second of his embarrassment, the man leans in, “I can save you the trouble. There’s no way he’ll put himself in the middle of a war for your worthless -” 

“Kak ty smeyesh' govorit' za menya!” Castiel’s voice booms from within the cell, making the men around Dean cringe in sympathy for their comrade. Bart looks ready to piss himself. 

“Come in, Dean.” His voice is quieter, but carries no less authority for it. The men part around him, letting him make the journey alone. Twenty feet have never seemed so long. He stops a few feet inside the cell, hesitant to do anything to offend Castiel. He’s lounging in bed, book in hand, and still looks like the commander of the universe. Dean was stupid to have ever questioned this man’s power. 

Castiel sighs and nods towards the chair. “Have a seat.” 

Dean does as he’s been ordered, his eyes cast low. Castiel makes him sweat, refuses to instigate the conversation they both know he’s there for. 

“I-I came to ask for your protection,” he admits, blunt and meek. He’s trying not to fidget, but his nerves are getting the better of him. 

“Right to the point, hmm? No foreplay at all.” There’s an edge of humor there, but Dean isn’t reckless enough to grab hold of it. Not with the results of his last impetuous action still looming ominously. Not with his life at stake. 

Dean clears his throat, trying to keep the misery out of his voice. “Sorry, I just didn’t want to waste too much of your time.” 

He hums knowingly. “The last we spoke, you assured me that you not only didn’t need my help, but it wasn’t welcome either. Yes?” 

Dean’s blinking back tears before they form, watching his last hope drift out of reach. After what he’s done, his enemies will mutilate him, use him as a warning for others. It will be a painful, merciless death. It appears that Castiel will be pulling up a front row seat to watch the entertainment. “You’re right. I did say that.” 

He stands and makes his apologies, “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” 

Castiel makes a rude noise and barks at him, “For fuck’s sake. Sit down.” 

He tosses his book aside, glaring. This mousy, scared version of his beautiful medic offends him. Seeing this strong man brought so low by the filth who are currently plotting revenge against him. The light is gone from his eyes, his brash humor abandoned. 

“Explain how this came to be.” 

Dean looks up then, the pitiful glimmer of hope he allows is enough to squeeze Castiel’s cynical heart. “I stumbled upon Alastair and three other men torturing a black man named Reggie in the showers today. They didn’t care for my interference.” 

“That is all?” Castiel knows the whole story, just about everyone in the prison already knows, but he wants to hear it from Dean. 

“Uh, no. I broke Alastair’s nose and kicked him in the ribs.” 

“His men did not fight for him?” 

“I neutralized them first.” 

“Neutralized.” Castiel smirks. “I’ll bet.” 

Dean can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He is weighing options, planning outcomes. “I can’t help but notice that you are not injured. You took on four men and walked away unscathed. Perhaps you don’t need my protection,” he suggests. 

“I need the power of your name, of your organization. I can’t fight a hundred men on my own.” 

Castiel smiles then, “I don’t doubt that you would try anyway.” 

A quick quirk of his lips is all that Dean allows. “I know what I’m asking is too much. The risks that you will assume if you stand between me and Alastair are great, and I can’t offer you anything for compensation. I just...don’t know anyone else. I don’t have any other options, so I had to at least try.” 

Castiel can appreciate the brutal honesty, the guileless desperation. This is a man with nothing to lose, and he wants nothing more than to sweep Dean up into the bosom of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. There are considerations, however. His is an organization that requires eternal devotion; there is no exit strategy. Dean cannot simply leave when his sentence is up. Castiel does not want to offer protection only to have to put a bullet in the man’s brain in a few short months. 

Dean waits, gut twisting as the seconds pass. He’s never wanted to influence a decision so urgently, never prayed with such fervor. Please, his lips beg silently. His eyes close in supplication. 

“I cannot offer you the protection of my organization,” Castiel states plainly. 

Dean feels the agonizing fall to his doom, waiting now for the inexorable impact. 

“However, I will offer you my personal protection.” 

Dean sucks in a deep breath, replaying the last few seconds to be sure he heard Krushnic correctly. “You-you will?” 

“Yes, Dean. What you did was admirable. I don’t wish to see you murdered for it.” 

“But, you...What is the difference? You versus your organization? Don’t you represent them?” 

“To offer their protection is to bring you in as a recruit. I don’t believe you’re ready to make a lifelong commitment to them, which is what they require.” 

Honestly, if that was his only option, he’d have taken it in this moment. When all you can see is a certain excruciatingly painful death, you become willing to do things you’d never dream of otherwise. 

“So then, what do you require?” Dean swallows hard, trying not to let him imagination run wild even while his heartbeat feels like it is shaking his bones. Up to this point, there have been none of Castiel’s typical lustful looks, so perhaps his intentions are not leaning the way Dean assumes. 

The lascivious smile Krushnic gives him puts that notion to rest. His eyes coast over Dean’s body, taking stock of his new purchase. “What if I just offer you help out of the kindness of my heart?” 

Dean’s face must give him away, because Castiel chuckles. “No, I wouldn’t believe that, either.” 

“The truth is, I don’t know what I want from this arrangement. I’ve never offered anything of the sort. It is a … unique situation we find ourselves in. I promise that I will be your protector, your champion. I also promise that what I ask from you in return will never be something you can’t give. Is that fair?” 

There are so many holes in that agreement that it looks like lace, but Dean is in no position to complain. The crushing burden is lifted. He breathes a free breath for the first time in hours, sighing in relief. “That’s more than fair.” 

Castiel swings his feet over to the floor and stands. Their business concluded, Dean stands and offers his hand. The sly smile and shake of Krushnic’s head have him dropping it in confusion. 

“In Russia, we seal our deals with a kiss.” 

There it is. The panic returns, but Dean shoves it down. A kiss is nothing. He can do this. He nods curtly in agreement. 

Castiel waits, tilts his head. “As the one receiving my favor and agreeing to this deal, you need to be the one to offer the kiss, Dean.” 

Fuck. Passively letting a man kiss him is one thing. This is an entirely different one. Nervous, insecure energy makes him hesitate and waver. A shuffling step forward and an awkward stop. Castiel lifts a single brow, which carries a surprising wealth of communication. It is a demand, a challenge, and a good-natured tease all at once. Dean takes another step forward, until they are trading the same air. His breath shudders out of him while he gathers his courage and licks his lips. Gently, he cups the side of Castiel’s neck, his thumb resting on his stubbled cheek. Leaning in, he presses his lips firmly to the wide, soft pink ones of his protector. After a second or two, he purses them together to end the kiss, but incomprehensibly finds himself unwilling to step back. Instead, he goes back for another taste. 

When they do part, Castiel licks his lips like he is chasing Dean's taste. With a soft look in his eyes, he praises, “Otlichno, myshka.” 

 

*****


	2. Ты принадлежишь мне (You are Mine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns what it means to be under Cas's protection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hot damn. 
> 
> Apparently, I can't write short fiction. Three chapters has officially become four. I'm really, really going to try to keep to that. 
> 
> Here's hoping. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter and left comments and kudos. This is a crazy busy week for me, but your encouragement kept me writing. 
> 
> Russian translations:
> 
> Dorogoy: darling  
> Malysh: baby boy  
> Myshka: mouse (term of endearment)
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

Lips still tingling from the foreign kiss, Dean listens to the guttural syllables of Russian roll off Krushnic’s tongue as he gives direction to several of his men. Dean recognizes the curt, certain tone of his voice as authority that never needs to verify that orders are being followed. Once given, his word is law. 

Sitting back in the desk chair, he waits. He learned long ago that in any new situation, it is best to stay silent and observe, so that is his approach now. It gives him a reason to keep his eyes on Castiel, to watch the fluid grace of his body and the enunciation of his lips. He’s felt those firm lips under his, licked away their taste. Dean’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the emotional bomb to go off. Even if he had no other choice, he just willingly kissed another man. 

When it doesn’t come, he becomes a slave to introspection. Why are his reactions to Castiel so different? Is it an evolutionary thing? Is he responding to the predator, the ‘alpha’ in him? That thought rankles because Dean has always thought of himself as a prime specimen of masculine strength. If only the fittest survive, surely Dean will be near the top of the list. He looks again at the Russian and his men who snap to attention when he speaks to them. If Dean does recognize and react to something superior in Castiel, he is in good company. 

Two men come in and lift the stored bed down onto its legs, while another tosses a stack of linens on top. He points at Dean, and then to the bed. That’s all the direction given before he leaves. Okay. 

Dean grabs a pillow to stuff into the case, when Castiel catches him. He scowls and barks an order at the man who just left. The man hurries back in, takes the items out of Dean’s hands with a grimace, and makes the bed. Every few seconds, Castiel watches his progress, seemingly ready to find and correct any errors. 

Men come and go while Castiel stands sentinel in the doorway. Dean has no clue what all of the urgency is about. Perhaps this is just a day in the life of a mob boss. When one of his foot soldiers appears with Dean’s belongings, everything snaps into place. Dean has a new home. He worries about what the Russians told Benny. Did they explain or just collect his things and disappear? 

When his meager possessions settle after bouncing on the thin mattress, the room clears. Castiel pulls the curtains closed and turns. 

“Are you okay with this arrangement, Dean?” 

A humorless laugh bubbles up. “It hardly matters now.” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow on him. “You can always pack up and go back to your other cell, but I cannot be assured of your safety when you are out of my sight for hours a day.” 

“I get that. It just would have been nice to have the chance to discuss it first.” 

Castiel raises that damn eyebrow, letting him know exactly what he thinks of Dean’s comment. This is not someone who has to ask other men's opinions. 

Dean collapses onto his bed and rests on his hands propped up behind him. From that slide of his hands along the sheets, he knows they are not prison issue. They are much too fine. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Cas. I appreciate what you’re doing. You’re saving my life, and I don’t mean to be a dick. It has been a hellacious day, and I’m tired. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” 

“Cas?” Krushnic doesn’t sound too annoyed by the nickname. 

“Yeah. I shortened your name. Are you okay with it?” he mocks. Damn. He needs to go to sleep before he receives a shiv between his ribs for his disrespect. The silence stretches until Dean feels the need to peek at his new roommate again. His Cheshire grin isn’t what Dean expects. 

“Feisty. It will be good to have someone around that doesn’t kiss my ass.” 

Dean snorts. “I’ll remind you that you said that when I piss you off with my big mouth.” 

“I doubt that anything you do with that mouth could piss me off, Dean.” 

Dean blushes at the innuendo. Realizing that he is utterly alone in a small cell with a notorious Bratva leader makes his heart pound. 

“Get some sleep, myshka. Tomorrow we must show the rest of the inmates that you are under my protection. It will be a trying day.” 

Dean lays back on his bed fully dressed. Hours after the lights go out, he is still staring at the ceiling. 

 

***** 

 

“Hold your head up high, Dean. Do not let anyone see anything but confidence.” Cas whispers into his ear from directly behind him. He isn’t sure why he isn’t trailing behind Krushnic and his men, but this is what Cas demanded. He’s already come to realize that the man doesn’t do anything without a specific reason in mind, so he’s sure putting him at the head of the group as they approach the cafeteria is significant. He just doesn’t understand the unspoken language of this place. He’ll defer to the experts and do as he’s told. It’s what he’s done his whole life. It’s what made him an impeccable soldier. It’s also what landed him in this hell hole. If only he questioned his orders a little more at Vigilance Security. 

Dean forces himself not to hesitate when the entire room shifts its focus onto him. He keeps moving forward, keeping his steps easy. He catches Benny’s worried eye and winks, hoping it reassures the man that he is safe. He receives a quick nod in return when the man’s shoulders relax. Good. He didn’t know if and when he’d be able to talk to him. 

When they reach the food line, one of Cas’s men moves people out of the way, either verbally, or with a hard shove if they don’t comply fast enough. They push to the front and Cas is given a special tray already prepared for him. He speaks in Russian to the man who hands it to him. The man shifts his gaze to Dean in surprise and then scurries away. 

“What was that?” Dean asks without moving his lips. 

“Don’t worry. He is bringing you better food.” 

“Why?” 

Cas makes a rude sound. “Don’t question me in public, Dean.” 

He fights the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t want to pick himself up off the floor if he’s caught doing it. 

By the time they reach the end of the line, the cook hands Dean a plate overflowing with some kind of thick, fluffy pancakes and fried eggs. At their table, someone brings steaming cups of Turkish style coffee. Cas takes a Russian language newspaper and spreads it beside him. He looks up at all of the seated men, who are patiently waiting for him. He waves his permission for them to begin, and his attention drops back to the headline of the paper. 

Dean feels like he has been dropped into another country. They may be within the borders of the United States, but at this table, and within a twenty foot radius of Dmitri Castiel Krushnic, it might as well be Mother Russia. 

Dean takes a bite of the pancake and is surprised by the savory flavor instead of sweet. The man across from him tells him that they are syrniki, made with cottage cheese. Now that he expects the flavor, he finds them hearty and delicious. The coffee is potent, and he wishes that he could ask for another cup, but the last thing he wants to do today is draw more attention to himself. 

Cas hasn’t said a word since being seated, his entire focus is on the newspaper he is devouring. The kind man across from him leans in and says quietly, “This is his morning ritual. He has many businesses back in Moscow.” 

Dean isn’t sure what he is supposed to infer from that statement. Maybe that he shouldn’t feel slighted? He nods anyway, thanking the man and asking for his name. Dean notices that he looks to Cas before he tells Dean that his name is Grigory. Dean offers his hand, but the man shies back to his side of the table without taking it. He drops it after a few seconds, not sure what he did to offend. 

Cas leans in to speak in his ear quietly. “My men will not make physical contact with you, myshka.” 

“Why, because I’m an unclean American?” he snarks. 

“No,” Cas purrs back. “It’s because they know that if they touch what is mine, I will kill them.” 

Dean’s mouth drops in confusion, his brain asking a hundred questions to clarify what particular bomb just dropped on him. Did Cas decide what he wanted from Dean? What did he mean by his? What is going to be expected of him? Was this his plan all along? 

With a gentle kiss to his temple, Cas says, “Close your mouth, Dean. You’re going to catch flies.” 

When he complies, Cas expounds. “Stop panicking. I’ll explain back in our cell.” 

Dean stares at him while he sips his coffee, deciding to take a leap of faith and trust Cas. It’s not like he really has much of a choice. 

Cas grins around the lip of his cup when Dean turns back to eating. He finishes the paper quickly, only truly interested in the business section. He takes part in the easy camaraderie between his men, wishing that Dean spoke their language. He makes it a point to translate anything that is particularly funny, and teaches him a few important words. He is impressed by the speed with which Dean picks up language. He figures out many words just from listening to their conversations. Dean is devastatingly beautiful, but he is smart, too. Without a plan to do it, Cas finds himself making spaces in his life for this lovely young man. He has to keep reminding himself that Dean is not actually his. Not yet. 

Alexei, one of the newer additions to his group, delivers the punchline to a joke just as a burly man walks by. The others don’t hear the words he mumbles toward their table, but Cas does. He is out of his seat in an instant. Launching himself at the man’s head, he grabs it firmly, twists, and leans back to pull him off his feet. The side of his head slams into the metal table with such force that it dents, the sound loud enough to draw the entire room to a standstill. 

“Repeat what you said,” Cas snarls dangerously, “and be honest because I know what I heard.” 

The man starts to laugh until Cas twists his neck at an angle that has everyone cringing back in sympathy. “I-I said, ‘Look who fucked his way to the top of the mob.’” 

Dean glowers at him, along with the rest of their table. Cas’s grip gets tighter. “Apologize.” 

The man remains silent, visibly clenching his jaw. Cas looks up at Dean then. “Do you know how to break a neck with your bare hands, Dean?” 

With a wry laugh, he replies, “Can’t say that was part of basic training.” 

Cas shakes his head as if this is a travesty. “Come here, dorogoy. I will show you.” 

Dean slides in close, heart racing but outwardly calm. “Show me where the C1 vertebrae is.” 

Dean moves his hand to it. “Yes, so the twist has to happen as close to this point as possible. The closer it is, the more fatal the break. Yes?” 

Dean nods his understanding. The man under Cas’s grip is wild-eyed and trembling. Being demonstrated on like an anatomy cadaver is taking its toll on his courage. “Sorry,” he whimpers. 

“What?” Cas snaps, in complete contrast with the kind way he’s been speaking to Dean. 

“I-I’m s-sorry.” His eyes are on Dean, pleading. He believes that Dean will show him mercy and normally, he’d be right. He’s taken care of people his whole life. The Hippocratic oath means something to him. If this man were in an accident or injured in battle, Dean would do everything in his power to save him. Here, though. He will not do anything to put himself in opposition to Castiel. Dean steps back, eyes moving to Cas. 

“That was weak considering what a bold stand you made in your original comment,” Cas states as he twists a little harder. 

“Okay, okay, okay. I’m so sorry that I spoke of you so rudely. I had no right to presume why Mr. Krushnic has taken you in.” 

Cas looks to Dean. “Are you satisfied, myshka?” 

Dean’s eyes go wide. His legs are trembling under the scrutiny of every man in the immense room. Cas isn’t giving him any guidance. Shit. What would a man like Krushnic want? He decides to err on the side of deference. “That’s for you to decide.” 

The tiny lift of Cas’s lips lets Dean breathe in relief. He made the right call. It is chilling to see the amused look on his face disappear to be replaced by an angel of vengeance. “I think, too little, too late.” 

With that, Cas pulls his head back and slams it into the table. The now unconscious man is going to drown if his face isn’t turned to the side. Blood flows freely out onto the shiny metal, pools and starts a waterfall of rapid drips onto the floor below. Cas steps back, wipes his hands on the man’s shirt and walks away. Dean falls in step behind him, as do the rest of the Russians. When he reaches the door, he turns to one of the cafeteria workers. “We’ll be taking coffee upstairs.” 

Once the men have had their fun recounting Cas’s latest show of might, they filter away until he and Dean are the only ones remaining. The young medic hasn’t spoken a word since they returned to their cell. 

Cas decides to explain his plan now that they don’t have an audience. “If they think you are mine, they will treat you with respect. They won’t challenge you. Since I can’t mark you as Bratva, I needed a way to extend my protection to my men.” 

Dean is shell-shocked, obviously not comfortable with this new reality. He blinks, eyelashes fluttering while he tries to snap himself out of the stupor. “Okay, so what does that mean? They think I’m your...” 

Cas smirks, leaning back on his bed. “I think you know the answer to that question. Do you really need me to spell it out for you?” 

Dean closes his eyes, realizing that the entire prison now believes that Cas is fucking him. His face heats with embarrassment even while he swallows his pride. This pitiful, helpless feeling sticks like a bone in his throat. If only he had power to wield like a weapon. He would give anything to be able to stand by Castiel’s side on his own merit, not hide behind him like a coward. 

“You don’t like this arrangement.” 

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t like being weak.” 

Cas tilts his head, “You are new here, and you have already gained a reputation from your altercation with the Aryans. My protection doesn’t weaken you, Dean. It gives you status. In all my years, I have never taken a lover that wasn’t also someone I considered an equal. My men know this. It is why Bartholomew is sulking. He feels that you usurped his position.” 

Dean feels proud of being considered Cas’s equal, and then feel ridiculous for wanting the man’s approval. He’s a ruthless criminal. Thinking back to the scene at breakfast is enough of a reminder to gain some perspective. He didn't kill the man, but it was a close thing.

“So Bart is your lover?” 

“No, but he is my right hand here.” Cas can sense that Dean has other questions, but he is silent for longer than is comfortable. 

“Ask your questions, Dean. Let’s get it out in the open.” 

“I don’t want to anger you.” 

Cas chuckles. “Well, that is an improvement.” 

Dean purses his lips and sighs. “What do you expect of me?” 

“I told you that I don’t know.” 

Dean glares. “I highly doubt that a man like you is that indecisive. You know what you want, you’re just trying to ease me into it, right?” 

“I have no ulterior motives, Dean. I’m simply intrigued by you.” 

“So you don’t want sex?” Dean asks shakily. 

Cas licks his lips and lets his gaze heat. “I didn’t say that. What I promised is that I would not ask for what you cannot give.” 

Dean wants to pick the words apart, feel for the solid boundaries of their deal with his own hands. He thinks better of it. In this case, vague might work in his favor. He nods and swallows down the rest of his questions. 

 

***** 

 

It’s been a harrowing day, and Dean can’t wait to fall into bed and forget the shit stack of a predicament he’s in. Cas’s men have trailed him all day. Grigory and Alexei played cards in the clinic while he worked, which served to make Dr. Shurley a mass of raw, jangling nerves and scare away legitimate patients. On the other hand, the number of faked illnesses seemed to quadruple overnight. Apparently, he is now a one man freak show, and everyone is lining up to get a look. To top it off, he’s not allowed to shower alone, just like he’s not allowed to do anything alone. 

The privacy curtains around their cell are drawn, and his guards stop at least twenty feet away from the door to say goodnight. They’ve been on his heels all day, and now they respect his personal space? He rolls his eyes as he ducks into the cell. His body freezes as the scene before him unfolds. Cas is laid out on his bed, tattoos on full display, his body naked and straining. 

Panic bursts into Dean’s bloodstream, racing through his body with the gallop of his heart. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m leaving.” 

He makes it as far as turning for the door before Cas stops him. “Stay, Dean.” 

He halts, but stays facing away. Losing the visual is not making the situation any easier. He can hear Cas’s heavy breath, the slick sound of his fist moving over his cock. His imagination tries to fill in the details against his will. His lungs squeeze, trying to match the rhythm coming from across the room. 

“Why?” is all he can manage. 

“We are roommates, Dean. We are healthy men with needs. Isn’t it easier to take care of those needs when they arise rather than try to hide them away?” 

Dean can’t help but turn around. Cas is not embarrassed in the slightest. He’s carrying on a rational conversation with Dean while his hand continues its merciless, hard stroke. He doesn’t take his eyes off Dean, and Dean finds himself mesmerized by the movement. He’s never seen an uncut cock up close and erect. It is thick and long, slick at the tip. A shiver runs down Dean’s neck, and that snaps him out of his daze. 

Dean begs for a life line. “Cas, I don’t know what you want me to do. What do you want?” 

Cas grins, his breathing ragged. “Nothing. I just want you to stay. Sit with me, and let me look at you. You’re beautiful.” 

Dean swallows hard, legs shaking and knees wobbly as he sits on Cas’s bed. He leaves a respectful distance, but Cas urges him forward. Arousal makes Dean’s gut clench. There is something erotic about being this close to one of the most dangerous men in the world while he’s at his most vulnerable. Dean can feel his cock fill, knows that soon it will be impossible to hide his body’s interest. The thin fabric of the prison uniform conceals no secrets. 

Cas runs his thumb over Dean’s lips, vivid blue eyes filled with lust. Dean tenses, waiting for him to take, waiting for the command. When it doesn’t come, Dean feels even more untethered. He feels like he should offer to do something for Cas; like he needs to earn his protection. But he can’t move. He has no experience with men, and it’s presumptuous to think that Cas would welcome his awkward, inexperienced advances even if he could move himself to action. 

Cas pushes his thumb into Dean’s mouth, runs it firmly along his tongue. Dean can’t pretend that it isn’t sexy as fuck, especially when his demand is simply, “Suck.” 

Dean complies, and Cas’s eyes slide shut. His body is tightening, back arching a little off the mattress. “Fuck, it’s been so long,” he breathes. “Don’t you miss having a warm body beneath you, open and wet?” 

Dean’s mouth drops on a groan, letting Cas’s thumb slide back to his lips. “Yeah, it hurts, doesn’t it, Dean? Wanting to feel another person lick and suck on your skin, grip your body in desperate longing? Letting your cock sink into velvety heat? Knowing that it could be years before you can have it again? It’s torture.” 

Dean’s body leans closer without his knowledge, caught in the images Cas is cultivating. His brow furrows to offset the intense desire. His palm pushes against his erection to displace that ache, too. 

“Take care of yourself. You’ll feel so much better, malysh.” 

The devil himself couldn’t have been more persuasive. Dean turns to put his back against the wall and slides his hand under the waistband of his pants. The first contact with his weeping cock makes him hiss. There’s nowhere near enough room inside their confines, so he impatiently jerks the impeding clothing down under his ass. He sighs into a long, satisfying slide of his hand over his cock. 

Cas slows his pace, quietly enjoying the unfettered pleasure on Dean’s face, watching him come apart within Cas’s reach. If he’s beautiful normally, Dean is worthy of worship like this. Cas can feel his obsession growing, slipping out of his control. He had expected to have to work for weeks to weaken the man’s resolve. Instead, he barely had to breathe against it. It makes him itch to see how far he can push Dean, and how much he’s willing to give. 

Dean lets his head drop to the side, and the long expanse of his throat makes Cas salivate. He wants to suck a deep bruise right above the hollow there. He bites his lip instead. As they both race to completion, Cas reaches over to push Dean’s shirt up. Dean drops his hand on top of it, questions and surrender in his eyes. “Don’t want you to come on it.” 

Nodding in understanding, his attention shifts back to getting himself off. His hand stays as an anchor, trapping Cas’s hand against his chest. Dean’s moans get less breathy and more substantial as his grip tightens. Cas caresses his skin with a thumb, and he can feel the lightning twitching in his spine. “Fuck, fuck, I’m almost there.” 

Dean redoubles his efforts, more than ready to feel his own pulsing release. The surreal experience of watching Cas tip over into turbulent spasms while feeling those hot spurts of come splatter against his own chest undoes him. White heat licks through his body as his orgasm shakes him. He’s never come with such violent intensity. It leaves him trembling and breathless, weak body and incoherent mind. 

He cracks open his eyes to see Cas looking just as wrecked as he is. In his fucked out state, he tugs Cas closer, gentle urging with guileless eyes pleading. Cas closes the gap, letting their lips touch and rest. He hums his approval when Dean parts his lips to welcome him in. Lazy, graceless kisses swap between them as they recover. 

Cas pulls back and grabs a box of tissues. Silently they clean up and Dean straightens his clothes. He can still taste the faint hint of vodka from Cas’s mouth, and his brain is starting to seize up on him. He clears his throat, but Cas beats him to the punch. 

“Please don’t freak out about this, Dean. We’re in close quarters and it was a sexually-charged situation. We both enjoyed it and that’s fine. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.” 

Dean stands to go to his own bed, but looks back, pensive smirk gracing his lips. “Actually, I’m more freaked out by how okay I am with what happened.” 

They are caught in each other’s orbit, staring deep and poignant until Dean finally says, “Good night, Cas.” 

 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to hear from you!!
> 
> Comments and kudos fuel my muse. Don't let her starve...  
> (Now I feel like Sally Struthers)
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr here](https://angelaland.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter Three: Ты такой сладкий на вкус (You Taste So Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bumpy road, but Cas and Dean are learning a lot about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> My little side project is almost done. One massive chapter to go. I have to admit that I'm loving this version of Cas. He's so much fun to write. 
> 
> Russian Translations: 
> 
> Ya tebya khochu.: I want you. 
> 
> Vozlyublennaya: sweetheart

Dean isn’t sure whether he should be flattered or concerned that Cas decides to spend the entire day with him in the clinic. Surely the man has more important things to do. For the first two hours, he hovers and worries over Dean’s comfort. He snaps at Dr. Shurley to bring something better for him to sit on than a rickety stool, which almost makes the poor man piss himself. He sends someone to get more coffee for Dean when he happens to yawn. 

“Cas, enough with the mother hen act,” he scolds when Cas tries to massage his hands following a leg wound that required more than 40 stitches. 

That damned adorable head tilt precedes, “I don’t know this phrase.” 

Dean’s smile receives a scowl. “Easy, tiger. It just means that I don’t need you to coddle me.” 

Cas harrumphs at his comment. “I have nothing else to do. I’m not used to being idle.” 

Dean suggests that they pass the time playing cards. Dean has been hustling at poker since he was twelve years old, but from the first two hands, he can tell that it isn’t Cas’s game. Normally, Dean would be trash-talking by now, using his confidence and aggression to whittle away at his competition. He feels no such desire with Cas. Instead, he finds himself teaching the man. 

“Why are you so bad at this? I see your men playing cards all the time,” Dean teases when he wins the next hand without even trying. 

“Not poker. Durak is what they play. It means fool.” 

“Can you teach me?” 

Cas shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “Yevgeny is a better teacher. I’m not known for my patience.” 

Dean can’t help the burst of a laugh that explodes out of him. He holds the following breath, hoping that Cas didn’t take offense. His smirk reassures Dean immensely. “Laugh now, malysh.” 

“I have a feeling that word is insulting.” 

“Of course not. Literally, it means baby boy, but it is a pet name for a younger man.” 

Dean never feels like he gets his feet fully underneath him before Cas knocks him off kilter again. He’d thought that his interest was simply sexual, especially after their mutual masturbation the other night. He has plenty of evidence to back up his assertion. But Cas offers to do so much for him that is not sexual at all. When he looks at everything the man does for him, it all amounts to taking care of him. Cas pays attention to him, sees what might be lacking, and he fixes it. Most of the time, he doesn’t even wait to find a problem. He anticipates what Dean will need and offers it before Dean can realize it was something he was missing. 

He wonders if this is simply a Cas trait, or if this intense interest is all for him. As he takes in the look on the man’s face, he feels that primal shiver slip down into his groin. Yeah, that predatory look is just for Dean. 

“Do you play chess?” 

Dean nods and smirks when Cas sends Bart away to fetch his chess set. “Care to make a wager, Cas?” 

“Why?” 

“What do you mean, ‘why’? Because it’s fun to make it competitive.” 

“It’s already competitive. What more would you get from a bet?” 

“Surely you’ve noticed that this place runs on a barter economy, Cas. I could win something that I want.” 

Cas furrows his brow and sits forward. “What do you want?” 

“Um, more phone time would be great. I miss my brother.” 

“I did not know you have a brother.” Dean nods, nostalgia taking him away for a moment. 

“I will give you a cell phone so you can talk to your brother whenever you want. You don’t need to win a bet for that.” 

“They’re illegal...” 

“Yes, Dean. So are weapons and vodka. You'll notice we have no shortage of those.” 

“Okay, then I want more of Mrs. Morozov’s cooking.” 

Cas rests his hand on Dean’s forearm. “Do you not understand that I will give you whatever you want? All you need to do is ask.” 

His earnestness makes Dean answer him honestly. “You’re already saving my life. I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity.” 

Cas assures him, “That is not taking advantage. It makes me very happy to take care of you, Dean.” 

Bart returns before Dean can respond. Cas sets up the board efficiently, which is Dean’s first clue that Cas is a master at chess. They play game after game while Cas teaches him strategy. Conversation flows easily between them, which comes as a shock to Dean. He wouldn’t have thought that they would find any common ground. 

Cas talks about his family in Russia. He doesn’t keep in touch with most of them, but he has two brothers that also belong to the Bratva. He explains his position to Dean. He is the Avtoritet, the Authority, and isn’t that name just the perfect title for Castiel? He is second in command for the entire Solntsevskaya Bratva, and he is very young for the position. Dean can only assume that he’s earned his rank with both intelligence and ruthlessness. 

“Can I ask you something personal?” 

Cas glances up under cover of his lashes. “You can ask me anything, Dean.” 

Once again, Dean wonders at the absolute conviction in his voice. How can he be so sure? They barely know each other. How can he know that Dean is worthy of his protection, his confidence, his friendship? It makes Dean sit up straighter, be more present in the moment. He wants nothing more than to deserve Cas’s trust. 

“I don’t want to make assumptions, but isn’t homosexuality criminalized in Russia?” 

“Yes, for the most part. There are very few who are openly gay or bisexual.” 

Dean is precise and careful with his next statement. “You seem very open with your sexuality.” 

Cas gives him a shark-like grin, more teeth than contentment. “I enjoy who I enjoy, Dean. I don’t see the point in trying to put everyone into a box with a label. Pleasure feels the same no matter who is giving it.” 

Dean makes his next move as he contemplates Cas’s answer. It seems so simple, so freeing. He wonders if Cas’s open and accepting attitude towards sex is what he has been subconsciously reacting to. Is that what makes him want? 

“Check-mate.” Dean is startled out of his pondering by the rude claim. They had barely even started this latest game. 

“Besides, Dean. Who would be foolish enough to question my actions?” 

 

***** 

 

Close to the end of his shift, Cas is speaking to one of his men in the consultation room. Dean is wiping down the beds with disinfectant when one of Alastair’s Aryan pricks comes in. Dean notices that he glances around before he opens his big mouth. “Well, well. It looks like you forgot your bodyguard, Winchester. That didn’t take long. I’ve heard that Krushnic likes his boys young and tight. Did he already wreck that little pussy of yours?” 

Dean ignores his comment and asks if he needs anything from the clinic. The asshole came to his work place, so he can’t respond the way he really wants to. He’s picturing it, though. He can see every finger break, feel the pop of tendons. They’ve drifted closer throughout the exchange, standing now almost toe to toe. 

“Nah, there’s nothing I want from you. With the company you keep? I wouldn’t want to risk catching something.” 

Before he has a chance to smirk at his own wit, he screams in agony and crumples to the ground. Dean registers that Cas is standing directly behind Alexei, who just kicked the man’s knee viciously from the side. He’s laying at a completely unnatural angle, writhing on the floor and sobbing. If Dean had to guess, Alexei snapped at least two ligaments and probably dislocated the patella. Ouch. 

Without urgency, Cas steps up to peer down at the man. “It looks like you need something from the clinic now, doesn’t it? It’s too bad that Dean won’t be offering any treatment.” 

Alexei spits on the man as he steps over him, muttering in Russian. He gestures for Dean to lead the way. Dean’s come to understand that this is a sign of respect, so he doesn’t balk at it anymore. He doesn’t see what Cas does as they leave the clinic, but the injured man howls in pain. 

 

***** 

 

When Dean is dressing for bed, Cas can’t help but admire him. His body is tan everywhere except what would be hidden by a swim suit. When his boxer briefs slip down on his hip, he can see just a tease of the creamy skin underneath. His chest and back are broad, his arms well-muscled. Cas admires many parts of Dean, but one in particular has his attention at the moment. 

“You have such tall, thick nipples. Do you enjoy them being sucked on?” 

Dean chuckles, “I don’t have a clue, Cas. No one ever has.” 

“Why not?” He is incensed by the travesty. 

“Men’s nipples aren’t usually given a lot of attention.” Dean answers with a shrug. 

Cas scoffs. “They are if you know what you’re doing. Christ, Dean. Have you been bedding virgins and prudes?” 

Dean drags a white t-shirt over his head, hiding himself away, annoyance snapping in every movement. “Right out of high school, I was a combat medic. I spent four years on the front lines. There wasn’t much of a chance to bed anyone.” 

Cas approaches him silently. He has inadvertently raised Dean’s insecurities and now he needs to soothe them. “Would you let me?” 

“Let you do what?” 

“Tease your nipples.” 

Incredulous denial precedes Dean’s curses. He moves away from Cas and lays down on his bed. He reaches for his mp3 player, ready to drown out his roommate and this ridiculous conversation. He scowls when Cas sits on the bed, looking down at him with that frustrating mix of affection and desire. 

“I just want to show you that it can be pleasurable.” 

“How about I say that I believe you and we can skip the awkwardness.” 

Cas holds his gaze tenderly while his hand moves with stealth over to Dean’s chest. At the first light touch of a fingertip to the soft cotton-covered nipple, Dean hisses and jerks back into the mattress. Widened eyes accuse Cas of making his body betray him. The same finger rubs around the nipple that is pebbling up under the attention. When Dean doesn’t show any signs of discomfort, Cas continues the gentle attention. 

Little sparks of contentment jump up from his skin wherever Cas touches. It’s hard to believe that such innocent contact can feel so good. Cas stops long enough to push Dean’s shirt up out of the way. Dean helps him, pulling it back over his head and dropping it on the floor. He feels his heart rate pick up, letting little thrills of danger echo in his head along with the repeated thought of, ‘What the fuck are we doing?’ 

Cas lays down next to him and tugs him over onto his side so they are facing each other, Cas’s head level with his chest. Looking up at Dean under those sooty lashes, Cas drags his flattened tongue firmly across the raised flesh. Dean bites back the whimper of pleasure, firmly squeezing his bottom lip between his teeth. On the next swipe, he lets it go as he moans. Fuck, that feels good. 

Cas hides his smile when he curls his tongue around the now firm nipple and sucks it into his mouth. He alternates pressure, rubbing the tip gently and then tugging on it with the pressure of his mouth. He can feel Dean’s body responding beautifully to the attention. The tension in him is building, his hips are shifting and restless after just a minute or two. Cas knew Dean would enjoy this, but his reactions are so honest that Cas has to give him more. He hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, knowing the answering pull Dean will feel in his groin. 

He is gratified when he hears the whispered curse, “Oh, fuck.” 

Cas releases him with a drenched click. “You feel that in your cock, don’t you?” 

Dean nods, “It’s unreal. I wouldn’t have thought it would be that intense.” 

Cas hums and turns his attention back to the spit-slick red nipple straining for him. Dean sighs at the renewed contact, but he feels he needs to offer an out. “You made your point, you know. You can stop.” 

Without moving away from the flesh he’s toying with, Cas asks, “Do you want me to stop?” 

Dean shivers as he feels those words form around his skin, Cas continuing to flick at it with his agile tongue as he speaks. 

He answers honestly, “Hell, no.” 

Cas’s eyes slide low as he continues his suckling, drugged by the intimate task. 

Dean tips his head up, not able to keep watching. Already, he’s feeling too much. His cock is stiff in his boxers and he wants to feel the friction of Cas moving against him. The next time he jerks off, Dean won’t be able to help thinking of this sight, how Cas looks lost in satisfaction. He feels the tug on his cock with every agonizing pull on his nipple. 

After long minutes filled with breathy moans and whispered praise, Cas releases him. When he looks at Dean, his lips are slippery, swollen, and dark red. Dean is mesmerized by them. He doesn’t want Cas to stop, almost pleads with him not to. His chest aches where Cas been plying him with attention. So caught up in his yearning for more, Dean almost misses his direction to lay back. Cas switches to the neglected nipple, pebbled up and ready to be tended to. 

At the first touch of his mouth, Dean gasps and slides his hand into Cas’s hair. The man hums approval, leaning into the touch. The new angle moves his groin away from the temptation of Cas’s body, and Dean doesn’t know whether to be thankful or not. His body is on fire, flames of lust licking over him as Cas continues his ministrations. 

Dean is writhing, desperation for release apparent in his sinuous movements. Cas cups his cock, lets go of his prize for a moment while he encourages, “Take yourself in hand, Dean. You need the release.” 

Dean tries to deny it, but his panting breath and lust-drunk eyes tell a much different story. Continuing to suckle and nip at him, Cas pulls the front of Dean’s boxers down under his balls, letting his hard, leaking cock curl up over his stomach. When Dean does nothing except close his eyes, Cas makes an exasperated noise. Why must this stunning man be so goddamned stubborn? Cas grabs Dean’s hand and lays it on his twitching dick just as he uses particularly strong suction on his abused nipple. Dean should be feeling that ache all the way to his lower back. He’s smug when he hears the groan roll out of Dean’s mouth and sees his hand grasp his erection. 

That must be the button that connects to his mouth because as soon as he starts stroking himself, Dean can’t stop talking. “Fuck, Cas. I didn’t know. How is it...how did you know? This is amazing...I want this all the time. Your mouth...your fucking gorgeous mouth. Fuck.” 

Cas feels a swell of lust rip through him. He moans around the swollen nub, letting his hand drop to his own aching cock. He hadn’t intended to take this demonstration to it’s conclusion, but it’s inevitable now. Watching Dean masturbate with furious need while he praises Cas is too much. His control snaps and he falls into Dean’s rhythm easily. 

Murmurs continue to be panted into Cas’s hair. “Yes, yes, Cas...so good...you made me so fucking hot...I’m gonna lose it...now...I’m coming, Castiel.” 

Hearing his full name tumble out of Dean’s beautiful mouth as his orgasm pulls him under is Cas’s own trigger. Harsh Russian curses grind from him as the pulses start, pumping hot come out onto his hand and over Dean’s exposed hip. 

Before Cas can grab Dean’s shirt from the floor to clean up their messes, Dean’s hand runs over his hip, sliding into the pool of Cas’s come and rubbing it into his skin. 

Cas can’t take his eyes off of it. He’s under Dean’s spell, and a Russian curse slips out unbidden. 

“What was that?” Dean teases as he continues running fingertips over the now dried skin. 

Cas’s voice has dropped an octave. “I said, fucking hell.” 

Dean chuckles. “My sentiments exactly.” 

 

***** 

 

Dean is so distracted that even meek Dr. Shurley is getting annoyed with him. Dean’s nipples are sore, aching, and making him all too aware of their existence. Whenever they brush against his shirt, which is every time he moves, he can’t help but remember why they are so sore. Images of Cas’s long, pink tongue drawing his puckered flesh into his mouth torment him. 

He drops a tray of sterilized instruments and evidently that’s the last straw. 

“Okay, you know what? Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off, Dean.” 

“I’m fine,” he growls in response. 

“Perhaps, but you’re making more work than you’re getting done. That’s not like you, so obviously something is off. Take care of it, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Dean huffs out a curse, but turns to leave. The amused looks on his guards’ faces just pisses him right off. He points at Yevgeny and then Grigory. “Not a word out of either of you.” 

They let him stomp ahead and he sets his jaw when he hears the whispered Russian behind his back. Entering his cell, he sees Cas sitting at the desk, looking serene and productive. Dean glowers at him, annoyed as fuck. 

“What is wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he snaps. 

“Be honest, Dean.” 

“I got booted from the clinic because I was too distracted and kept fucking up.” 

“That doesn’t sound like you. What happened?” 

“You!” 

Cas is taken aback by his adamant confession. With a furrowed brow, he demands, “Explain yourself.” 

“You sucked on my nipples for an hour yesterday and now they are so fucking sore I can’t think straight.” 

Cas’s face softens. “Come here, Dean.” He gestures for Dean to sit in his lap, which he balks at. Cas jerks his hands forward, and he catches himself on his knee beside Cas’s hip. From there, he obeys and sinks down, straddling Cas’s lap. “Take your shirt off and let me see.” 

Cas smiles at the bruised and swollen nipples. “Look at these sweet little berries,” he purrs. “This one likes the attention,” he punctuates the pause with a lick and a gentle suck. Turning to the other side, he continues, “But this one. Look at how it sits up and begs for my mouth.” He laves the stiff peak with reverent attention. His hands slide up Dean’s back, using his shoulders as leverage to hold him in place. 

Dean is melting under his magical tongue, but he grumbles, “I think you like them more than my mouth.” 

Cas looks up, caution in his tone, “I didn’t know I was allowed to have your mouth.” 

“I didn’t know you needed my permission.” 

Cas pushes Dean off his lap and onto the ground, sighing as his fingers rub his temple. “You aren’t my whore, Dean. I don’t take what is not freely given.” 

They stare at each other for a strained moment, neither of them giving any quarter. “I need some air,” Cas comments as he walks out. 

 

***** 

 

Cas’s kindness has a limit, and Dean’s apparently trampled all over it. The cold regard he receives from the man now is in such direct opposition to his previous demeanor that Dean doesn’t know how to be around him anymore. He never accompanies Dean anywhere, doesn’t engage him in conversation, doesn’t try to anticipate his needs. In fact, he hardly even looks at him. Dean thought it would work itself out naturally, but after three days, he’s still in the dog house, and he has to do something. When they all get back to their cell after dinner, Dean politely asks everyone to leave. 

Cas gives him nothing but stony stoicism. He’d thought that ordering his men around might at least get a little rise out of him, but nothing. Cas sits on his bed, kicking out his legs in front of him. 

“Cas, I’m sorry that I upset you, but you can’t keep ignoring me. We’re roommates, and I’d hoped we were becoming friends. What can I do to make things right between us?” 

“Everything is fine, Dean. I just realized that you felt that our interactions were being forced on you, so I believe it is best if we keep those interactions as limited and distant as possible so there is no confusion about consent.” 

“That’s not what I thought. I was just being a dick and you know it.” 

“Regardless, I think we should maintain some distance.” 

“What if that’s not what I want?” 

Cas levels him with his glare, accent thick in his voice as he snarls, “I don’t give a damn what you want.” 

Dean shakes his head, approaching his bed and crouching down before him. “I don’t believe that. You’ve done nothing but take care of me since we met. You didn’t just stop caring. You’re angry and this is how you’re punishing me, by taking your affection away.” 

Cas’s jaw is set, his eyes blazing, but he doesn’t deny what Dean is saying. Dean knows enough about Cas to know that trying to touch him right now might earn him a black eye. Instead, he drops his own eyes and says, “It hurts, Cas. I want what we had. Will you please forgive me?” 

Dean doesn’t move, just waits him out. When he feels Cas plant an innocent kiss on top of his head, he allows a slight smile. 

In almost every way, their relationship goes back to the way it was before. In all ways but one, actually. It’s been weeks, and Cas still refuses to initiate anything physical between them. Dean should be relieved, shouldn’t he? Maybe, but that’s not remotely how he feels. He craves the attention of the brutal Russian leader. He wants his lips on him again, wants to feel the heavy weight of his lustful gaze. The maddening ache for Castiel is tipping into desperation. He needs to entice the man back into his orbit, but what the hell does he know about enticing a man? He’s completely out of his depth. 

Cas feels Dean’s eyes on him all the time lately. They burn into him whenever he isn’t looking in the man’s direction. Dean is studying him; he knows that much. What he hasn’t figured out is why. He, of course, has the unrealistic hope that Dean wants him, that his intention is carnal. Every once in a while, he catches Dean staring before he can look away. He schools his features too well, though. The most that Cas can read from him is curiosity. 

Since their argument, Cas hasn’t touched him or let him get close. Thinking that Dean might have been compliant with his wishes because he thought it was payment for Cas’s protection turns his stomach. He still wants the man more than is sane and rational, but in their situation, Cas has all the power. There is no way to know for sure if Dean actually wants physical intimacy between them. 

He feels the shift at dinner that night. Dean sits across from him instead of at his right hand. Stony curiosity gone, Dean’s eyes are warm and appreciative as they caress his body. He keeps the conversation personal, his focus solely on Castiel. His smile is dazzling when he allows it. He asks to be taught more Russian, words like want and need, whose connotations could be innuendo. Hearing him repeat the words and phrases in his mother tongue makes him want. The flirty attention is heady coming from his beautiful ward, but he’s been down this path before. Caution is necessary. 

Dean claims to be tired when the other men are playing cards, so Cas retires early with him. Cas hears the whoosh of the privacy curtains closing behind them when they enter the cell. The sound registers as a red flag. They haven’t closed them much in the recent weeks. 

Sultry eyes meet his as Dean approaches. They flick down to the ink exposed by the V-neck of the prison uniform. “Will you tell me about your tattoos?” he asks, reaching out to run two light fingers over the skin from collarbone down to the point of the V. Cas closes his eyes and parts his lips. In that moment, Castiel understands who really holds the power. 

He pulls the orange atrocity over his head, exposing his life story to Dean. It’s a vulnerable feeling, watching hungry eyes take in the multiple and sometimes overlapping designs. “This jaguar is vicious-looking. What does it mean?” 

“It’s actually a sign of good luck and caution. The letters spell thief.” 

Dean hums and he touches the stylistic letters DSS that stand out on his ribs. “And this?” 

“It stands for the Latin phrase ‘Dum Spiro Spero’. It translates to ‘While I breathe, I hope’.” 

Dean’s fingers coast along the lines of the Madonna and child, spreading the fuzzy tingle along the skin of his chest. “I don’t understand the religious imagery. Why the Madonna?” 

Dean is standing so close that Cas feels his breath on his neck as he speaks. “I don’t know why, but it means that I am a native of prison; I was born to it. It’s an old Vor y Zakone tradition.” 

“Vor?” 

“Thieves in Law. They are the organization that predates the Bratva. They had a very strict code that they followed, and that is where the tradition of tattoos comes from. Every one of them has a specific meaning.” 

Dean smiles coyly. “And you’re going to give me the key to crack your code?” 

Cas teases back, “You already have the key, myshka. You just haven’t tried to use it.” 

Suddenly, Dean’s interest isn’t in the tattoos anymore. His eyes snap to Cas’s, searching. When they drop to his lips, Cas can’t help but take in a deep breath. Dean notices and it convinces him that he’s on the right path. Slowly, Dean cups his face in his hands, sliding his thumbs over his sharp cheekbones. “May I?” 

Cas nods minutely, bracing himself for what Dean will do. Leaning in, he barely brushes their lips together, nudging Cas to open for him before he presses in more firmly. 

Heart racing, desire blooming, Cas anchors his hands on Dean’s hips, not trusting himself not to take over and take everything he wants from Dean. The wet drag of his tongue across Cas’s wide lips, begging entrance, pulls a pleading sound from Dean. 

Cas breaks the kiss, needing to ask, “What do you want, Dean?” 

Desire, certain and pure, looks back at him. “You, Cas. I want you. Ya tebya khochu.” 

His eyes widen in surprise and then he yanks Dean to him, crushing their mouths together in a bruising, claiming kiss. When they surface, gasping for air, Cas pushes and shoves at Dean until he sits down on his bed. Dean’s shirt and pants disappear as if by magic; Cas is suddenly laser-focused on getting every inch of skin exposed. Cas licks his lips then, wanting to devour all that he’s uncovered. 

“Have you ever sucked a cock, Dean?” 

Dean clears his throat, worry evident on his face. 

“No, I haven’t, but I can-” 

Cas shuts him up by plundering his mouth, licking deep and possessive. Dean goes pliant, letting Cas short-circuit his brain with his talented lips and tongue. “Don’t worry, vozlyublennaya,” he soothes, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I am an expert.” 

When Cas wraps his perfect lips around the head of Dean’s cock, he thinks he sees heaven. Cas dips his tongue into the slit, lapping up Dean’s most potent flavor. He hums and murmurs, “You taste so sweet, malysh. I could drink you down all day.” 

A whimper escapes Dean’s lips when Cas takes him all the way to the hilt. His hips want to buck up into the amazing heat, but he knows from previous experience that it’s rude, so he does his damnedest to be still. Cas hollows his cheeks and slides up, creating suction that almost makes Dean black out. He definitely sees spots and his mind goes liquid. If this is how Cas starts a blowjob, Dean might be a drooling mass of twitching nerves by the end of it. 

Cas pulls off for a minute to explore Dean’s body. He licks and sucks on his balls, presses firmly on his perineum, but when he feels Dean tense, he leaves his beautiful virgin ass alone. They have time, and Cas is not going to rush him. He returns to Dean’s cock, eager to feel its weight on his tongue. Dean practically bows up off the bed when Cas pops the head into his throat. “Oh fuck, Cas. Holy Shit.” 

Breathing through his nose, Cas keeps him deep, swallowing around him and feeling him lose the last vestiges of his civilized nature. His sounds are feral, savage, and yet his only movement is his fists, clenching, white-knuckled and anchored in the sheets. 

Cas pulls one of his hands off of the bed and sets it on his head. “Grab my hair.” He purrs at the resulting sting. “Very good. Move your hips, too.” 

“I- I don’t want to choke you,” he manages. 

Cas responds with a wicked laugh. “You won’t choke me. I can handle you fucking my mouth.” 

Dean tentatively rolls his hips up when Cas takes him in again. The feeling is utter bliss. “God damn, Cas. This is-” 

Cas swallows on the thrust, and Dean’s words disappear into the ether. Thrust by thrust, Dean builds confidence that he truly won’t hurt Cas, and his movements become bolder. Every slide down Cas’s throat pulls desperate, pleading sounds from him. Fuck heaven. He’s reached nirvana. 

“You’re so...fucking...perfect, Cas,” he heaves, lungs burning with the exertion, lust bubbling in his blood. “I can’t...believe...this is real.” 

He’s so overcome that he’s flying; his body so light and untethered from reality that he feels weightless. He comes, trembling, sobbing out praise. 

Even as he gasps to replenish his oxygen-starved body, Cas crawls back up his body and kisses him. Dean tastes himself in Cas’s mouth and he chases it, finding the act so much more erotic than he imagined. Cas is redefining everything for him. “I told you that you tasted sweet,” Cas whispers into his hair. 

He wraps his arms around Cas’s body, tucking his head under his chin to bask in the brilliant, shimmery afterglow. 

 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: I'm not an expert in Russian prison/organized crime culture. Everything I've written comes from research. I actually did a lot more research than I can possibly put in the story, or it would end up being 100K words.
> 
> I live for your comments. They motivate me and keep me writing.
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr here](https://angelaland.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter Four: Ты совершенство (You are Perfection)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension in the cell block escalates. Confessions and professions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good afternoon, my wonderful readers.
> 
> From the feedback I've been getting, this isn't going to be terrible news...but the story is now five chapters.  
> I just couldn't force it into four. The final chapter should be up very soon. 
> 
> Thank you so much, btw. I've been receiving such amazing feedback and commentary on this story. I greatly appreciate it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

If Dean had been distracted and out of sorts after Cas sucked on his nipples, then now he’s losing his fucking mind. His fascination with the feel of Cas’s mouth on his cock is a thousand times more intense, and he can’t get it out of his head no matter what he tries. It’s in his every thought. When he blinks his eyes, the visions come unbidden. The clench and shiver of obsession ensnares him. Veins blister from the urgent need to have it again. He feels desperate pleas form in his throat, but he swallows them down. 

Eating at the table with Cas’s men had been excruciating this afternoon. The pink of Cas’s lips mesmerized him, flashes of white teeth catching him like a lure. Dean knows his weird behavior has been noticed. Castiel is nothing if not observant. 

On their way out to the yard, Cas walks slowly, urging Dean to stay back with him. With everyone else far ahead, he can finally ask what is bothering Dean. The man’s been jumpy all day, twitchy and unfocused. As soon as Cas turns to speak, he finds himself slammed into the wall. Dean follows to press into him firmly. His lips are on Cas’s before he can recover. 

Dean grasps him with strength he’s never shown, matching and possibly even besting Castiel’s own. Instead of feeling threatened by it, he finds it enticing. Dean’s mouth plunders like he is siphoning away sips of Cas’s soul. Moans get lost in the cavern of their mouths. When he breaks away to breathe, Cas is finally able to catch up with Dean’s onslaught. He smiles smugly, dragging light fingers down his jaw. “Feeling a little needy today, malysh?” 

“Cas,” he whimpers, eyes glassy and feverish. “I want you so fucking much.” 

Dean’s lips seek out the source of their necessity, and Cas knows that there’s no denying this gorgeous, wanton creature. He will give him whatever he wants. Even when their purposes run counter to each other, he can’t say no. Every touch warms his skin, every lick fans the flames, every nip sends current racing through him until Cas is yearning just as fervently to get Dean alone. 

But getting away when they’re supposed to be in the yard is tricky. He will need to call in a favor or two and get someone to run interference while they sneak back to their cell. It would be exponentially easier to wait, but one glimpse at the hungry way Dean is looking at him is enough to make any sacrifice worthwhile. Pulling away from him is painful, and Russian curses fall from his lips. 

“Dean,” Cas pleads, holding him at arm’s length so he can’t be pulled close again. Dean’s growl of frustration makes him chuckle. “Stop, sweetheart. Listen to me. I want you, too, in the worst way, but there are precautions we must take first.” 

Dean scowls but he’s listening now. “I’ll tell Alexei what I need him to do, and then we can go back to our room.” 

Dean pouts, but he agrees. As Cas is walking away, he commands, “Stay right here. I’ll be back in two minutes.” 

“Hurry, Cas,” Dean leers, voice deep in invitation and promise, and Cas almost runs into the door frame. 

“Fuck,” he mutters and shakes his head. 

Dean can’t help but get a little thrill out of seeing Castiel so flustered. It’s not a look he’s ever seen on the man. Never. Not once. A swell of pride accompanies the power that warms him. Yeah, that feels really fucking good. 

Dean tips his head into the wall, trying to calm down so that he won’t have to walk through the cell block with an obvious hard-on. He closes his eyes, blocking out as much extraneous sensory input as he can. He tries not to let a single image of Castiel take up residence in his mind’s eye. Dean huffs in annoyance when his brain does the exact opposite of what he wants. 

Every sense memory of the beautiful man is suddenly haunting him: the rough grind of his well-deep voice, the heat that radiates from his body, the silk of his midnight hair, the dark rings of blue that outline his lighter irises. Dean licks his lips, chasing the taste of him that is still on his skin. He’s even remembering his delicious masculine scent of wood smoke and honey. 

Until it’s overpowered by the stink of unwashed bodies. Nose wrinkling at the intruding stench, Dean cracks open his eyes. Fuck. He should have known that something would get between him and his goal. 

“You’re getting careless, Dean,” Alastair lisps as he and two of his fellow rednecks approach. 

“Not really. I have nothing to worry about,” he shrugs. 

“Is that why you’ve had your nose shoved up Krushnic’s ass for weeks?” The rat-like features curl up in a sneer. 

Dean squares his shoulders, taking a step forward. He’s dealt with these pathetic, weak men before. He’s just as confident in his skills now as the last time he fought against the small group. With Castiel’s name to protect him from the entire neo-Nazi contingent, he doesn’t fear Alastair. Alastair, no. The blade his buddy whips out and swipes at Dean with menacing gestures? That’s another thing altogether. Dean holds his hands up, placating the knife-wielding meth head with crazy eyes. 

Dean’s consciousness fills with castigating thoughts, the most prominent being that he did get careless, and fuck Alastair for being right about anything. He should have known that Castiel’s men weren’t the only ones with illegal weapons. Damn. 

“Easy now, Billy,” the vermin snivels. “You nick his pretty face and you’ll have the entire bratva come down on you.” 

Dean clenches his jaw at his pronunciation. He bastardizes it into the word ‘brat’ instead of the rolling, broad Russian tones. Glaring at Billy, he scoffs, “You think that little prick scares me?” 

Alastair chuckles. “No, I’m sure you’ve taken much bigger pricks, haven’t you, princess?” 

Forgetting himself, Dean grabs Alastair’s shirt and pulls him in to deliver a blow that will wipe the smug innuendo off his face. He cocks back, but before he can swing, the blade is at his neck. Double damn. 

Immediately, he releases his hold on the man but doesn’t so much as flinch after that. Alastair straightens his shirt like it can bring him some dignity. “That was rude, Dean. I think I’m going to have to teach you some manners.” 

Dean hears the door to the yard being yanked open and, despite the oppressive heat outside, the temperature drops as tension climbs. “Take that fucking knife off of him right now and I might not shove it up your ass.” 

Dean fights the smile that wants to show. It might piss Cas off just as much as Alastair and his men. Dean has only heard this particular bite to the Russian’s voice once before, and it preceded a nasty pool of blood that’s still stuck in the tile grout of the cafeteria. 

“We’re just chatting with our old friend, Krushnic. There’s no need to get upset.” 

“Pray that you don’t ever actually see me upset,” Cas replies at he steadily walks toward Dean. 

When he’s within reach, he stops. Catching Billy’s eye, his face stoic, he threatens, “I will not repeat myself.” 

The twitching, addled man makes a tragic error. He looks to Alastair for direction. Quicker than a snake bite, Cas grabs the man’s arm and twists, effectively making him drop the blade right into Cas’s waiting hand. Dean steps back at the same time, getting into a neutral, defensive stance. Cas thrusts the blade up under the man’s ribs and has the dripping tip under Alastair’s jaw before either of them realizes what’s happened. They hear the body drop, even if no one pays it any attention. 

Gesturing towards the door, Cas growls, “Walk.” 

Dean keeps his focus on the third man, ready to take him out of the equation if he even looks at Cas. He needn’t have worried, though. With each step forward they take, the other man retreats. Dean can’t blame him really. Some men don’t live up to the hype of their reputations, but Cas is not one of them. If Dean was in the man’s shoes, he’d be scared. Seeing the Russian’s brutality in action is terrifying. Dean allows the smile now. Or it would be if it wasn’t so fucking hot. 

When they get outside, far enough into the open to steal attention from around the yard, Cas shoves Alastair to the ground. The blade slides lightly against his skin as he drops, a shallow cut opening, crimson weeping from its edges. 

Rolling to his back, the man gropes at his neck in panic. He breathes out in relief when his hands come away with just a light coating of blood. 

Cas snarls, “You really believe me to be that merciful?” 

“You’re too much of a coward to kill me in front of a cell block full of witnesses,” he challenges. 

Cas laughs but doesn’t take the bait. “Killing you would be the kindest thing I could do. We both know that won’t be the option I choose.” 

“Why haul me out here then? Huh?” Alastair tries to sit up, but Cas kicks him over with his boot. “What are you going to do, Dmitri?” 

A humorless laugh rings out. “That is the question, isn’t it? What am I going to do to someone who tried to harm those under my protection?” 

Dean takes furtive glances at the guard stations. The only part of their uniforms he sees are their backs. It is truly impressive power that Castiel holds. Just in case this gets ugly, Dean also notes where the rest of Cas’s men are located throughout the yard. They might need him to jump into the fray. 

“I think I’ll give you a bible lesson,” More than one face bears confusion until he completes his ominous pronouncement. “and teach you the true meaning of vengeance. You know. An eye for an eye.” 

“I haven’t done anything to you. I’m sure we can come to an understanding.” Dean smirks. They’ve reached the bargaining portion of the event. Alastair has noticed that the guards aren’t coming to his aid. He’s also aware that he remains alone. None of his men or the other white supremacists are stepping up to help. He pins them with vicious glares before sitting back down to face Cas. “I’m not sure how you’ve managed to control the guards so quickly, but I must tip my hat to you.” 

Cas leans down minutely. “I pay for their children's educations. They are completely loyal.” 

Alastair’s eyes go wide in panic because he knows what this admission means. Cas doesn’t think he’ll live long enough to hurt him with the information. “Please, Castiel. You know I wouldn’t have hurt him. We were just having some fun.” 

Cas quirks a smile at Dean’s annoyed huff. “Of course you wouldn’t hurt him. Just like you couldn’t hurt him when you tried the last time. He is much too strong for you. But the fact remains that you ignored my protection order. I cannot abide that.” 

Allowing himself to look at Dean for the first time since his return, Cas reassures himself that his lovely ward is unharmed. “What happened while I was gone, malysh?” 

“Not much. Trash-talk, mostly.” 

“Trash-talk?” 

“Yeah, they were trying to get a rise out of me.” 

Cas chastises, “And they did. Otherwise that scum wouldn’t have been able to get that blade anywhere near you.” 

Dean hangs his head a little in embarrassment. It bothers him that Cas witnessed his error, the departure from his training. Cas leans in to whisper, “I will teach you patience, dorogoy.” 

Dean shivers in anticipation, catching the heat in his eyes. It is there and gone as Cas turns back to Alastair. 

“So you thought to verbally abuse him? Let me guess, did it have something to do with me?” 

Alastair gapes at him, his excuses abandoning him before they can form. 

“and the nature of our relationship?” Alastair begins to shake. His eyes cast about, searching for a friendly face. All around them, inmates are closing in, reacting to the aggression and barely-leashed violence in the air. 

Cas leans over him, making a disapproving sound. “Maybe I should cut out your tongue so you can’t speak to him again.” 

Alastair starts to babble as Cas moves. It’s all nonsense pleading, and it is completely ignored. The stringy, gray hair is caught in his fist and yanked at a straining angle. When the glint of steel catches the man’s eye, he tries to struggle away. Cas shakes him like a misbehaving dog. “Be still! Open up and let me see that vile tongue of yours.” 

“No, please! I’m sorry. I’ll never speak to the boy again. Please, Krushnic.” 

“I’ve seen a tongue cut out before,” Cas muses while he drags the knife to the edge of Alastair’s mouth, tugging at the corner. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of blood. Almost as bad as slitting a throat.” 

He snaps out of his memory to issue the ultimatum. “So what will it be? I’m a reasonable man. Tongue or throat?” 

‘What a choice’, Dean cringes in sympathy. There’s only one option that keeps you alive, but it’s a grotesque thing to have to decide. He isn’t looking forward to watching either, but he refuses to leak any emotion. This punishment is being exacted because of him; he will support Cas’s decision. 

“I’ll do anything you want. Please.” Alastair is whimpering, chin quivering, begging dissolving into tears. Cas is disgusted by his weakness. 

“For fuck’s sake. Shut up!” Cas roars. With swift and lethal intent, he rears his arm back, turning the knife in his hand to point outward. He brings the full weight of his momentum to the man’s jaw hinge, just under his ear. Everyone flinches at the pop and snap of his bones beneath. Besides breaking his jaw, the punch renders Alastair unconscious. 

Cas stands, hands the knife to Dean, and wipes his hands on his pants like they’ve been contaminated. He looks down on his handiwork. There isn’t much blood, but the devastation is obvious. Tears and snot dry on his face while the lower half of his head rests at an unnatural angle and bruising blooms. The rest of him is covered in blood, sweat, dirt, and piss. With a shrug, Cas comments, “That will stop him from mouthing off for a while anyway.” 

He gestures for Dean to lead the way back inside. Cas looks to the crowd of men surrounding them. “If any of you have been wronged by him, feel free to take it out of his hide.” 

 

***** 

 

After a show of force like Cas’s, it is best to lay low for a while. The neo-Nazis weren’t willing to go against him in public, but their pride will be hurting, and there’s no sense in making the Russians a target while their emotions are high. By tomorrow, they will have lost much of their ire. 

As a result, most of Cas’s men are loitering around their cell, or in the two next to it, all occupied with Bratva members. The vodka is poured with a heavy hand while they either play Durak, tell outrageous stories, or try to wrestle. Cas and Dean play chess, opting to occupy the quietest corner, which is still nothing but. The noise offers them a chance for private conversation, though, and Cas takes the opportunity. 

“Can I ask you a question, Dean?” 

“Of course,” he agrees as he looks over the board. Cas has been teaching him the finer points of the game, but he still lures him into traps more often than not. 

“Why me?” 

Dean stills and gives Cas his undivided attention. “What do you mean?” 

“You’ve never been with a man, and we can hardly keep our hands off each other. I guess I want to know why. What makes me different?” 

At first, Dean thinks that he is fishing for compliments, and he almost brushes off the comment with humor. But when he looks, there is genuine curiosity in Cas’s eyes, making him look open and vulnerable. Dean crosses his arms in front of him on the table and leans closer. “I don’t know if you’ve looked in the mirror recently, but you are gorgeous, Cas.” 

He smiles at the indignant look he receives, continuing before he can complain. “But that’s only part of it. Obviously, I’ve seen good-looking men before. You’re right about that. It’s different with you. I’m different with you.” 

Dean is struck dumb for a moment, caught by the intensity of being Castiel’s entire focus. He takes another drink, hoping to bolster his nerves. The words he needs to share make him the vulnerable one. His truths give away power to another man, and it he didn’t trust Cas, there is no way they would ever be spoken. If nothing else, though, he owes him the truth. 

“In the beginning, I was drawn to your authority. Maybe it’s my military background, maybe it’s my upbringing. Hell, maybe it’s just how I’m wired, I don’t know. But watching you command your men, seeing that control that you exert over everyone? It’s a potent aphrodisiac.” 

Cas’s eyes slide lower, his gaze heating as he grins. “So if I want sex, I should be an overbearing asshole?” he teases. 

Dean rolls his eyes and sits back. “Do you know how to be anything else?” 

Cas rubs his knee, soothing away his frustration. “I’m sorry, Dean.” 

“I’m trying to be sincere here.” 

Cas pours another shot into Dean’s glass. “I know. Please continue.” 

Dean knocks back the vodka, loving the warm burn and settles into its courage. “Once we started getting to know each other, I realized that it was more than that. There’s something elemental about you that I respond to.” Cas narrows his focus, head tilting as he listens. 

“I’ve always considered myself very...capable. I’m strong, disciplined, skilled. I guess you could say I’m a man’s man.” 

Cas nods his agreement. Dean licks his lips. “I’ve always felt superior to other men in that way. I might respect them, might like them, but I’m always secure in the fact that I’m at the top of the evolutionary scale.” 

Heat is palpable between them when Cas murmurs, “I don’t disagree. You are a perfect specimen of manhood.” 

“I don’t feel that way with you. You are, at the very least, my equal. You challenge me. You turn all of my assumptions on their heads. You’re the kindest man I know, but also the most brutal.” 

Cas closes the space between them, his hand sliding up Dean’s arm. “Even though I never considered being sexual with a man, we fell into being lovers like it was the most natural thing in the world. I kept waiting for the panic to set in, but I don’t feel it. It feels right to be with you.” 

Cas kisses him, gentle and slow. It is thankful, affirming, and almost chaste. “Yes, it does feel right, doesn’t it?” 

“Can I ask you the same question?” Dean’s face, flush from the alcohol, darkens another shade. 

“Of course, myshka.” Cas has to catch his breath. Dean is the loveliest of all God’s creations. He’s sure of it. He settles his hand over Dean’s, enjoying the connection between them. “I could tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and strong, but those things are not what sets you apart. Like you said, there are lots of beautiful men.” 

Dean turns his hand underneath Cas’s so that they rest palm to palm. His thumb rubs along his wrist, encouraging him to continue. “What turned my head was when you marched in here and told me that you didn’t want my gifts because you didn’t want me to get the wrong idea.” 

Dean smiles, “I put on a bold face, but I was terrified of you.” 

“That just makes it more impressive, Dean. You came to man you feared, in his territory, knowing that what you had to say would most likely anger him. You could have let the gifts continue, but you wanted honesty between us. It’s commendable.” 

Cas quirks a grin. “Your integrity is the thing that impressed me most about you. You helped that man at a great cost to yourself. Knowing exactly who I am, you told me no. When I offer you everything, even though you have nothing, you tell me that you don’t want to take advantage. That is what makes you so special.” 

Dean ducks his head, embarrassed by Cas extolling his virtues. Cas tips his chin back up and teases his lips open for a more searching kiss. In mere seconds, they are both breathing heavier, awareness and heat building swiftly. When he pulls back, he adds, “There’s also this undeniable chemistry between us.” 

Dean nods, sighing, “Fuck, yeah, there is.” He tugs Cas forward, anxious to get his mouth back on him where it belongs. He licks along the seam of his lips, begging entrance, imploring Cas to take them both where they want to go. Forgetting where they are, who is there with them, they lose themselves in consuming, exploratory kisses. 

Cas remembers himself just long enough to issue the command for everyone to get out. Dean smirks at the speed at which they all move. In barely one sweep of the second-hand on the clock, their cell is empty. 

“Damn, Cas,” Dean purrs, climbing up to straddle his lap. “That’s really fucking hot.” 

Cas hums approval and wraps his hands around Dean’s hips, squeezing proprietarily. His hips roll up, slipping his rigid cock against Dean’s. They both moan at the contact and he immediately repeats the motion. Dean joins in this time, thrusting along with his building rhythm. “Oh god, that feels so good, Cas.” 

Dean tips his head back as Cas nips up the side of his neck. Next to his ear, Cas whispers, “What had you on fire for me earlier today? What did you want me to do to you?” 

“I wanted your mouth on me. I wanted it so badly. I was ready to do anything for it.” Dean closes all gaps between them, one arm banding around his shoulders, the other combing through his hair. 

Cas groans, “And now? Do you still want my mouth?” 

“Yes, but I also don’t want to stop. This is good, too.” 

With a last slow grind, Cas kisses him and sets him back on his feet. He’s about to complain when Cas reminds him, “I told you I would teach you patience, Dean. Consider this your first lesson.” 

Pouting just a little, he lets Cas undress him and he returns the favor. His fingers can’t stay away from the tattoos decorating the Russian’s body. His greedy eyes can’t get enough, either. He kisses and licks one of the ornate stars just under his collarbones. “Bart has these, too. What do they mean?” 

“They’re symbols of leadership, like stripes and bars for your military.” 

Dean’s fingers run delicately over his abs, glancing over the image of St. Basil’s. “Do you miss Russia?” 

Cas growls low in his throat as Dean licks over the hollow in his throat. “Yes, but I’ll be back there soon.” 

“Soon?” Dean freezes, concern in his features as he looks to Cas for an explanation. 

“Yes, my work here is finished. Mikhail will call me home soon.” 

Dean swallows hard, “You’re leaving?” 

It takes Cas a minute, but he makes the connection. “Don’t worry, Dean. You will still be protected when I’m gone.” 

Dean’s lip curls in disgust and he pushes Cas away. “That’s not why I’m upset.” 

Cas sits on his bed, leaning back on his hands. “Then why?” 

Dean gawks at him like he’s an idiot. “Because I want to be with you. I don’t want you to be halfway across the earth.” 

Cas’s face softens into affection. “I feel the same way. I will miss you terribly.” Holding out his hand for Dean to take, he kisses his fingers and pulls him down on the bed with him. “How much longer is your sentence?” 

“A little over two years.” 

“Will you come visit me when you are free? I would love to show Moscow to you.” 

“You’ll have forgotten all about me by then,” Dean says sadly, cupping his jaw and guiding him down. 

Dean hears him murmur, “I could never forget you, Dean.” into his ear, and he wants so badly to believe him. They tangle their bodies together, hands committing each other to memory. 

In the morning, Dean wakes to the incredible warmth of Cas’s body surrounding him; the heavy weight of his arm like a thick blanket, the humid puff of breath on his neck. The sweet domestic feeling ruptures as soon as he remembers that Cas is leaving. Soon, he’d said. 

He turns, seeing Cas crack his eyes open at the jostling. “How long do we have?” 

Cas sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know. Mikhail has not ordered me back yet, but it won’t be longer than a few months.” 

Dean feels an ache in his chest, knowing that he won’t have the chance to see this relationship flourish before it will be ripped away. He’s mourning already, their firsts and lasts thought of at the same time. The unceasing tick of the clock forces urgency to tint every action. Tears fill his eyes and the words come rushing out without his permission. “Take me with you.” 

Cas’s face crumples, pain evident in his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart. I wish I could.” 

Dean already knew the answer. He has a sentence to serve. Cas has a job to get back to. He isn’t surprised that their course is set. Still, he grieves. 

 

***** 

 

Dean decides that he isn’t wasting a single moment of the time they have left. He doesn’t take any more shifts in the clinic, which he can get away with thanks to Cas. The Russian is more than happy to accommodate that request, since it is about the only thing that Dean will let him do for him. 

They are inseparable. Whether they are playing chess in their cell, eating a meal, or lounging around in the yard, they talk. Cas tells him all about his childhood and how he became a member of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. Dean tells him his own coming of age story. With every new detail Cas hears, he gets a better sense of who Dean is, and he is greedy for every last piece of the puzzle. 

When they aren’t talking, they are feeding their insatiable sexual appetites. Dean takes to sucking cock amazingly well. After only a couple of weeks, his skills rival Cas’s own. He can’t get enough of making Cas come apart at the seams. Seeing the authoritative man lose his vaunted control pleases him like nothing else. 

This morning, Dean has been quiet. His eyes haven’t left Cas during breakfast, and they have a pensive, appreciative weight. He’s contemplating something, which always intrigues Castiel. 

When Dean gets up to get more coffee, he leans down to speak with Grigory. The man sputters and spits out his coffee, then turns to gawk at Dean. By the time he walks away, the Russian looks put out, but Dean’s grinning. Apparently, he’s gotten what he wants. Cas smirks. He’s not surprised. 

It doesn’t take long to figure out what Dean is up to. He drags Cas to the showers after lunch, when everyone else in their cell block should be out in the yard. Grigory stands vigilantly at the entrance to the room, ensuring their privacy. It’s the first time they’ve been alone here, and Cas is impressed by Dean’s ingenuity. 

When they are naked and under the spray of water, Cas walks him back into the wall, bracketing his arms on either side of his head. The perfection of Dean’s mouth distracts him, drugs him, gets him hard. He sucks on that plump bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth as Dean moans. He turns his attention to Dean’s throat, loving the way the warm water eases the slide down to his collar bones. 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

There are so many immediate reactions in his body that Cas feels like he’s having a stroke. His mind can’t form words because there are a thousand images taking up all the bandwidth. He wants what Dean is offering with fervent intensity. His hands tremble and an agonized whimper drips from his slack mouth. 

Dean kisses his shock away, slowly getting his brain back online. “So that’s a yes, I take it?” he teases. 

“Oh, hell yes,” Cas agrees, lust-blown pupils lending even more of a big bad wolf vibe to the already predatory grin. 

“Now?” Dean’s voice wobbles a bit, but Cas ignores it. It’s obvious that he’s nervous, but that he trusts Cas. He knows that he will taken care of. 

“Not in the showers, but yes. Now. Right fucking now.” 

 

***** 

 

Back in their cell, Cas rips away their clothes, laying Dean down on their bed and, without hesitation, slides in between his legs. The position opens Dean to him, and he lets his erection slip into the crevice of his ass. He rocks himself with brushing strokes against the soft skin, watching Dean’s reactions carefully. When he doesn’t tense or push him away, he looks down at his wide guileless eyes. 

“Do you know anything about this, Dean? What we’re going to do?” 

Scarlet licks over the skin of his cheeks, trailing down his neck. “I-I know that I have to stretch first, and that we have to use something slick.” 

Cas kisses him tenderly while he adds a middle finger to caress Dean’s puckered knot of muscle. “Have you ever taken anything in your ass?” 

Dean clears his throat and looks away. Cas guides his chin back, asking his gaze to return. “It’s fine either way, dorogoy. I just need to figure out where we’re starting from.” 

Dean huffs a laugh. “We’re starting at the very beginning. Assume I know nothing.” 

“Good, I like being able to teach you things.” 

“I don’t like having to be taught.” Cas can sense the heavy truth in his snarky comment. Dean never appreciates being anything other than adept and well-trained. Not for the first time, he realizes how difficult their entire relationship must be for him. 

“Perhaps not, but in this case teaching is necessary. So either we don’t do it, or you agree to accept my instruction.” 

Dean meets his eye then, his prickly hesitance fizzling out. “I want this,” his reply is simple, but confident. 

Cas explains what he is doing as he carefully preps Dean. He can tell that the man would prefer it if he stayed silent, but he wasn’t kidding about it being necessary. Dean needs to understand what he’s doing and why. He probably should have asked Dean to turn onto his stomach for this, but he wants to see his face, connect with him. 

By the time Cas has two fingers plunging smoothly into Dean’s virgin tightness, the man is thrashing, begging for more. “I knew you’d like this, Dean, but you’re surpassing all my expectations. I haven’t even stimulated your prostate yet.” 

Dean pushes back against his fingers, breathless and needy. “What are you waiting for?” 

He chuckles, twisting his fingers up and pushing lightly against the gland. Dean’s reaction is to shout out a curse and bow up off the mattress. “I have to ease you into it, malysh. The pleasure can be overwhelming, otherwise.” 

“Do it again,” Dean demands. This time, he moans and sinks into the feeling. Cas feels his cock twitch in sympathy. Cas adds another finger, which stretches him enough for him to hiss at the slight burn. On every few thrusts, he rubs the electrifying gland again, making Dean buck and gasp. 

“Is this you trying to teach me patience?” Dean asks, the plea evident in his tone. 

“No, sweetheart. This isn’t the time for teasing. You’ve never done this before, and I refuse to hurt you.” 

“How much longer? I’m going to come before you get your cock inside me.” 

Cas fights the moan, but it escapes. “Fuck, Dean. I might, too. I don’t know how I’m going to handle the sight of my cock dipping into this perfection.” 

“It’s just an ass, Cas. No need to wax poetic.” 

“Oh, I beg to differ. You’re lucky I haven’t set up a shrine to this ass, Dean.” 

To punctuate his point, Cas slides down to get his mouth on it. Reverently, he kisses the firm, round globes of muscle while his fingers continue their insistent push and pull. Shifting his focus to the center of him, Cas licks over Dean’s rim, stretched tight around his fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Dean’s question is tense and fraught with confusion. 

“I’m kissing your ass, Dean,” he teases, hoping to ease him. He huffs out a shaky laugh, so Cas continues. “It’s called rimming, dorogoy. Will you let me?” 

While he waits for permission, he dips his tongue in alongside his fingers. Dean slaps a hand down on his arm, squeezing to displace the immense pleasure. As Cas licks and sucks, he feels Dean open up, finally pliant and soft enough to attempt fucking. 

Cas moves back to his knees and slicks up his neglected cock while he stares down at Dean. The moment he nudges the head into Dean, he feels irrevocably altered. As he sinks in, dragging along the velvety walls that clench around him, Cas is lost. He gives everything to Dean: his pleasure, his power, his heart. He exists only to please this man who is falling apart beneath him. Dean is trembling, with rapture, with emotion. 

“Oh fuck, oh god. Cas,” Dean heaves. When Cas is fully ensheathed, he lets Dean pull him down for a claiming kiss. Their lips soothe each other, a steadying presence amidst tumultuous sensations. When Cas withdraws, he watches emotions wash across Dean’s expressive face with fascination. The open yearning he sees mirrors the desperation flickering through his nerve endings. Dean moves through shock, joy, contentment, need and agony in a blink. He’s as overcome as Cas feels. 

“I was right. Absolute perfection. You’re going to ruin me, Dean,” Cas sighs as he rolls his hips back into Dean’s body. He forces himself to keep a steady pace. There will be no hard fucking for his first time, no matter how badly he might want it. 

“Good. You’ve destroyed me,” is his reply as he grips Cas’s thigh, giving him leverage to thrust back. On the next hard snap of Cas’s hips, his mouth goes slack, “I can’t believe how good this is, how much I fucking love it.” 

Cas pushes deep and grinds, “Clench your muscles,” he commands. His eyes roll back in his head when he obeys. “Fucking hell, Dean. I think you could cut my dick off with that pressure.” 

“Goddamn, you feel huge like this,” Dean breathes, squirming against and into the sensation of being stuffed full. 

Cas hums appreciatively as they resume the incredible rhythm. They race together towards release, even as both of them dig their heels in, trying to make it last. Just one more minute...one more thrust...one more touch...one more kiss. 

“I’m so close, baby,” Dean whimpers. Cas’s heart flips at the pet name. Dean’s never spoken to him so sweetly before. He shifts so that he can take Dean’s cock into his hand, moving in a counter-stroke to his unrelenting pace. Dean’s movements pick up in urgency, chasing his release. Cas encourages him in every way he can. 

“That’s it, Dean. Take your pleasure from me.” 

Dean is blind to everything but his impending release, body coiled up tight, about to burst with energy, and yet, he begs, “I-I want you to. Come with me. Cas, please. Come with me.” 

“Fuck, sweetheart. I am. I’m right there,” he promises. Dean shouts as his body seizes up, his pearly come striping the inked skin of Cas's abdomen. Clenching muscles ripple around him, and Cas pulses his own come deep inside of Dean with a roar. 

 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally climbing on the bandwagon, so come say 'Hi'.
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr here](https://angelaland.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5 :Я приду за тобой (I’ll Come for You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Retaliation, Recovery, and Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear readers,
> 
> This is the final chapter, but I made it a really long one. It's just under 10K words, so yes, it's a third of the entire story. 
> 
> A couple of other announcements before you begin...
> 
> The story is now a part of the Destiel Fresh Hits Collection. The challenge word of the month is "Tattoo", so I couldn't NOT join in. The Collection is linked, so be sure to check out the other stories that were submitted to the challenge. There are some talented writers there!
> 
> Also...
> 
> If you notice, this story is now officially part of a series. 
> 
> **Yes, there will be a sequel.** It's already planning itself out in my brain. Once I finish my other monster stories, I will start the second part.
> 
> I've had so much fun writing this story. I hope you enjoy reading it's conclusion!!

Dean looks up from his book when Cas comes in, a storm raging over his features. “Good talk with Ivan?” 

He’s pinned by a smiting glare, the command practically snarled, “Mind your tongue.” 

Dean smirks at the reprimand. “I’d rather you mind it for me, sweetheart.” 

He can’t help wanting to ruffle Cas when his anger is so obvious and his control is thin. Cas is hardly ever so off-balance, and Dean knows the best way to help center him. Cas needs to work off a little stress, and Dean is more than happy to help. 

Their eyes catch and hold for long seconds before Cas turns his back on him, muttering in Russian while he reaches for the opened bottle of vodka on the desk. 

“I’m sure you wouldn’t say that if you’d ever met my mother,” Dean comments casually, eyes back on his book. He sees Cas turn, but doesn’t look up. 

“Your Russian is getting better,” he finally comments. 

“Yeah it is, so you’re going to have to find other ways to berate me when you’re in a mood.” 

Cas sighs. “I am not berating you.” He walks over and extends the bottle to Dean, who takes it and swallows down a healthy gulp. “I’m sorry. My frustrations aren’t your doing.” 

“I take it that I’m not going to like what you have to tell me,” Dean says quietly, trying to brace himself for what’s to come. 

“No. No more than I did.” 

Dean takes another pull and hands the bottle back. “Well, no time like the present.” 

Cas sits down next to him, but focuses on the wall across from them. “It’s official. Mikhail gave his orders.” 

Dean fights the tremble in his chin. He’s not going to cry. He’s not going to make this difficult for Cas no matter how much it pains him. “When?” 

“I’m expected in Moscow on the first of September.” Dean hears the regret in his words, and he offers comfort by leaning into him. 

“That’s a little over a month away. It’s better than I thought,” Dean admits. It’s not enough time, but it will never be enough. 

“I spoke with Ivan last week, in anticipation of these orders. I asked him to bring a petition to Mikhail for me. I asked him for more time, and I asked for you to be able to come with me. Both were denied.” 

Cas ducks his head. “I’ve been loyal to my Pahkan for over ten years. I’ve gone where he’s told me, done whatever he’s asked. I’ve given him council, was the best man at his wedding. For him to deny me like this...” Dean has never seen Cas look so distraught. He presses a kiss into his temple. 

“It means a lot that you want me to go with you.” Dean continues planting kisses along the side of his face, until he reaches the spot that drives Cas wild, just under and behind his ear. He licks along the skin, nipping at it to tease. 

“I’m not going to stop trying.” Cas assures him. 

“Mhmm,” Dean agrees, as he climbs into Cas’s lap to straddle him. “But right now, I want you focused on something else.” 

Cas lets himself be led into Dean’s seduction, never taking his eyes off the gorgeous man grinding on him. It’s spectacularly easy to let his touch become his sole purpose for breathing. Dean coaxes his shirt off and explores his body with eager hands. 

Through their loose prison uniform pants, Cas can easily line up their cocks to slide against each other, enticing them to full hardness. After pulling a few gasps from Dean, Cas is ready to have him naked. “Get those off,” he urges. 

Cas wastes no time whipping his own pants over and off his hips, letting them drop to the floor forgotten when Dean climbs back in his lap. Cas holds his hips, letting him move sinuously without fear of falling. Dean rocks and grinds, tangling his hands in Cas’s hair and around his neck. 

Dean toys with his mouth, keeping the contact light and feathery between them, even while the rest of them is consumed by rough, hungry movements. “Kiss me, Cas,” he whispers. 

He obliges, gladly. Taking Dean’s mouth in a possessive, deep kiss, he swallows down their moans. When they part, Cas bites down on his bottom lip and makes Dean work to pull it free. 

“What do you want?” Dean asks through breathy pants. His smile is glorious; his face sharing his arousal and happiness. Lips shiny, eyes sparkling, freckles fading into the deep flush on his cheeks. Cas is completely enchanted. “You,” the answer tumbles from his lips as he stares in awe. “I don’t care as long as it’s you.” 

Dean blinks, not wanting to read too much into the look of wonder on Cas’s face. “If you’re letting me choose, then I want you to fuck me. I think I’m still pretty open from this morning.” 

Cas smiles at the memory. They had missed breakfast because he woke already hard and aching, and Dean is the most obliging man Cas has ever met. Sometimes he worries that his younger partner is going to wear him out. Cas has an incredibly healthy sexual appetite, but Dean is on another level. He’s fairly certain that he could keep Dean in bed, all day every day, and he’d still never be fully sated. 

Cas does only the most perfunctory of prep work because Dean slaps his hand away and chides him for teasing. Cas chuckles. He’s still trying to teach him patience, but the lesson isn’t sticking no matter what he does. 

“Alright, love, but you know you aren’t stretched enough.” 

“Yeah, yeah. It’s going to ache, and I’ll be sorry later. Don’t care. I want you now.” 

Dean lifts enough to let Cas get his swollen cock tucked into the crease of his ass. Using his own hand to guide him in, he sinks down, taking Cas as deep as he can get him. “Oh, fuck. Yes. That’s just what I needed.” 

Cas waits until Dean makes eye contact, and then he snaps his hips up into him. Dean huffs out a surprised groan. “Yeah, Cas. Hard and brutal. I want you to wreck me,” Dean grins. He’s already lifting to provide the counter-thrust for the next wave. 

They’ve learned and memorized every nuance of each other’s bodies. Cas knows the perfect angle and speed to make Dean scream. Dean can get Cas hard with a few choice words whispered in his ear. Cas can make Dean come untouched, and Dean knows how to wring an orgasm from Cas even when he’s trying ardently to avoid it. 

Cas knows that when Dean asks to be fucked hard, it’s because he’s feeling insecure. It’s a possessive need, a way to feel like he has a claim on Cas. He wants to carry something of Cas with him. 

Reassuring Dean is difficult with the expiration date to their relationship looming. Yet, the truth is he is the only one Cas wants, will probably be the only one Cas ever wants. He’ll tangle with that problem later. For now, he will use his body to satisfy his beautiful love; he’ll mark him with his lips, teeth, and cock. 

Cas flips them over, getting Dean beneath him on the bed so he can pound into him with his full strength. Dean howls his pleasure, even as the breath is jolted from his lungs. “Oh, fuck. Cas...fuck...yes, baby...so good.” 

Nudging his head to the side, Cas sucks and bites along his shoulder. In the sensitive hollow just behind the curve of his collarbone, Cas bites hard and then sucks to pull blood to the surface to ensure it bruises. Dean whimpers in appreciation and holds Cas’s head to him. “That one will stay for a while,” Cas notes proudly, giving the mark one last kiss before he turns his attentions to making Dean come. 

Readjusting to pull Dean’s thighs higher on his hips, Cas leans down to get a taste of his addictive mouth. He groans at the kisses that already feel messy and sated. Dean’s already close to orgasm. Cas tips back on his knees, using the angle to drive Dean higher. “I could stay buried in your body forever, sweetheart. You’re so goddamned perfect. You squeeze me so tight. Make me feel so good.” 

The relentless pace would be enough to make him come fast, but the angle is the sublime one that drags Cas's cock against his prostate, and against that he has no hope of lasting. “Cas,” he whines. “Harder, baby. I’m almost there. I want to come on your cock.” 

Cas grabs Dean’s shoulders for leverage and plunges in with impressive force. There’s no way everyone in the area isn’t aware of what they’re doing. Between the resounding slaps of flesh against flesh that echo throughout the room, the violent squeaking of the mattress, and Dean’s keening, their neighbors are getting a front row seat in stereo sound. 

Cas could give less than a fuck. 

Sweat is covering him, drops running down the slope of his neck and back. It is glistening on Dean, too, adding another slick layer of sensation to their coupling. The warm, wet slip of their skin coming together sends shivers down his neck. 

Cas can feel Dean tighten around him; the pressure intense in its perfection. “You’re ready, Dean. I can feel it. Come for me, love.” 

Cas’s favorite part of sex with Dean is looking deep into his eyes while he comes. It’s breath-taking. His expressions are so open and honest, so pure. Watching ecstasy drown him is what usually sends Cas careening into his own release. This time is no different. The first pulse of Dean’s cock sets off a chain reaction. Dean’s face goes slack in bliss, Cas’s heart pounds, blood rushes faster in his body, contractions milk him, and the first tingle of orgasm overtakes him. 

Cas shouts his satisfaction, Russian curses and praises raining down on Dean, who’s too fucked out to translate them. His limbs have dropped, his body gone boneless and weak. The only movement he’s capable of is turning on his side when Cas flops down beside him. 

Silently, they trade soft kisses, lost in their satisfied bubble. Dean runs fingers through Cas’s sweat-soaked hair, pushing it back out of his face. Dean can’t get Cas’s comment out of his head, one word reverberating. He wants forever. He lets himself imagine being with Cas for years, decades. It’s a bittersweet ache. 

 

***** 

 

Cas coerces Dean out of bed after their afternoon nap by promising that Mrs. Morozov made a special Sharlotka cake for him. The apple dessert is his favorite, and its name is enough to make Dean salivate. 

As is their custom, the Russians walk to the cafeteria together. Cas hangs back, letting Dean talk with Yevgeny, who is currently trying to teach him how to ask common questions in Russian. His accent is horrible, but his enthusiasm makes the attempt charming nonetheless. 

Dean’s senses go on red alert as soon as they stop in the cafeteria line. Something is off. Spending four years on the front lines of military combat honed his senses, and right now he can feel eyes on him like a physical weight. His sergeant called it a predator sense, and Dean’s head is on a swivel trying to identify the threat. 

Nothing in front of him seems to be amiss. Not finding anything is as worrisome as finding it. That’s when people second-guess their instincts, question the ancient part of their brains that developed to keep them out of danger. He looks behind him as surreptitiously as possible, checking on each of Cas’s men. Again, everything seems to check out. He runs a hand down his jaw, sighing in exasperation. Out of the corner of his eye, he finally catches it. Awkward, jerky movement out of sync with the line movement. Someone is jostling through the men, stalking their prey. 

Fighting his way upstream, he gets closer to the man whose face is not visible yet. Nauseating dread tingles in the back of his throat. The line of discontent is moving too close to their group. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but he knows that they are the target. They, but really, him. Cas destroyed Alastair publicly, and there hasn’t been even a whiff of retribution yet. Dean’s heart is pounding now, hammering with panic. 

Cas hears the jovial cacophony of men’s voices around him, but he is lost in thought. If Mikhail won’t assist him, then he will go outside the Bratva to free Dean. He scowls. That is just the first of several complicated steps. Getting out of prison, changing his identity, bringing him to Russia. None of these are easy tasks and will require substantial planning and preparation. He shakes his head. It might be easier to wait out his sentence. 

He’s snapped out of his reverie by movement; something large approaching too quickly. He turns just in time for Dean to plow into him, knocking him off his feet and into the men behind him. They push him back up, and immediately he turns to find out what the hell has gotten into the man. 

But the scene in front of him is straight from a nightmare. Dean’s momentum was stopped, and he stands, body tense in agony, a knife now embedded in the left side of his abdomen, just under his ribcage. A ragged, enlarging bloom of dark red is the only movement in his body. 

“No!” Cas shouts, reaching out for him just as his legs buckle. He catches him, but they both go down to their knees. “No, no, no. Dean.” 

Dean’s eyes are wide in shock and pain, lashes blinking rapidly. “Cas,” he whimpers, and then he slips into darkness. Cas holds him as the light goes out of his eyes, cradles his neck to prevent it from dropping. Cas shakes his head, denying this horrifying reality. Crying out in anguish, he pleads with the almighty. “Oh god, no. No, please.” 

Not his Dean. Not the only man he’s ever loved. 

Less than two hours ago, they had been immersed in each other, giving and taking the most exquisite pleasure. Now, they are both drenched in his blood, and it is still flowing. How had everything gone so wrong? 

He’s aware of the chaos around him as if it was happening behind a wall of glass. There are shouts for a doctor. His men are surrounding them, assuring that no further damage is done. 

Rocking Dean in his arms, he kisses his temple, holds his hand in his. Blinking back tears, he tries to whisper praise and words of love. It comes out as nonsense as he hyperventilates. 

Until someone reaches for Dean, and then Cas strikes like a cobra. He has the man’s neck in his grip, squeezing. 

“Castiel, let the doctor do his job!” Bartholemew snaps, pulling on his arm. He lets go, a sense of déjà vu overcoming him. The first day they met. A hysterical laugh bubbles up, but he dismisses the coincidence for now, fateful though it is. He has to focus on Dean. 

“He will be fine, yes?” He can’t bear to think of any other alternatives. 

The doctor’s eyes snap up to him, even as he’s putting on gloves. “The knife missed his lung and it’s too far over for his intestines, so I think it hit his liver.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“He’ll survive, but we won’t know anything more until they operate. We need to move him. Now.” 

Letting go of Dean’s body is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. He feels the loss immediately. He’s cold, desolate, achingly hollow. He looks down at himself, sitting on the filthy floor. By all accounts, he has everything: so much money and power that he can have anything he desires. At this moment, it all means nothing. 

Two of his men, Alexei and Vadim, return to the hall as Castiel gets to his feet. They are dragging a struggling man between them. His hands are stained with blood. 

“We found the man who did this,” Vadim explains. 

Castiel steps forward. “You are sure?” 

“Yes, this is the one. I saw the coward when it happened,” Alexei recounts. “He was aiming for your back.” 

It’s confirmation of Cas’s worst fear. Dean took the knife meant for him. He intentionally pushed Cas out of the way to save him. Castiel is to blame. 

Cas seethes with hatred, for himself, but even more for this man. His mind fills with all the ways he can avenge Dean. He knows this is retaliation for Alastair, but he has to confirm it. “Lift his shirt,” Cas commands. 

On his skin is the condemning mark. A swastika with a confederate flag behind it. It is the emblem of Alastair’s crew. 

“Gather the men. Find anyone wearing this mark and bring them to me.” Cas hears the orders issue from his mouth, cold and robotic. 

“What are you going to do, you Russian fairy? You can’t kill us all.” 

Cas grabs his face in both hands, his smile pure menace. “Oh, but I can, you fucking stain.” 

Before he can open his mouth to reply, Cas gives his head a vicious twist. The snap, loud and definite, doesn’t do anything to calm his ire. He watches the body drop and looks back at his two loyal friends. Neither of them looks uncomfortable with his orders. A curt nod is all that is needed between them. 

“I’m going to the clinic.” 

 

***** 

 

Castiel is wreaking unholy havoc in the prison infirmary. They don’t have the proper facilities to do surgery, so they transported Dean to the nearest hospital. They won’t even consider letting Castiel join him. 

Bart is trying to be the calm intermediary, but nothing is getting through to Krushnic. He’s never seen his leader like this; wild-eyed, impetuous, and irrational. He’s screaming at the staff in a mixture of languages, broken thoughts not meshing into anything anyone recognizes. The guards, whose loyalty is all but guaranteed, are nervously looking to Bart. They won’t harm Castiel, but they can’t let him harm staff members, either. 

“Castiel, he will only be there until he is out of recovery. They’ll bring him back tomorrow.” Bart soothes in Russian. 

“There’s no fucking way I’m letting him wake up alone.” 

Well, that was an actual sentence. Maybe he’s coming around. “I understand your frustration, but that might be what has to happen.” 

“No. That knife was meant for me, and he put himself in the way of it. I will be there for him.” Castiel looks at the guards, clearing weighing his options. “Take me to the warden,” he commands. 

Bart stops him with a hand to his chest. Quietly, he reminds him, “You killed an inmate less than a half hour ago. I don’t think a visit to the warden is wise right now.” 

“What’s the worst they can do? Keep me here?” Castiel gestures for a guard to lead the way, all the while glaring defiantly at his second in command. Bart recognizes the look. Castiel is rebelling. He’s pissed off that Mikhail ignored his request, so he’s willing to make it that much harder for the Pakhan to retrieve him. With a sigh, he closes himself in the doctor’s office and makes a call to Ivan. 

 

“Krushnic’s lover just took a knife for him and he’s losing his shit.” 

“Did he die?” 

“No, but Castiel is attempting to burn down the world to avenge him. He’s already killed one, and his order is out on the dozen more that are part of the same gang.” 

“Fucking hell. How are we going to keep a dozen murders from blowing back on us? Mikhail wanted a quiet extraction. He needs his Avtoritet on a very public issue when he returns.” 

“That’s not happening. Krushnic is too angry. I don’t know if he’ll leave when they come for him, to be honest.” 

“Angry? About what?” 

“Winchester.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Can’t he find a nice Russian boy to fuck when he gets home?” 

Bart rubs at his eyes. It rankles that Castiel is so smitten with the American. He’d hoped that making himself indispensable to the man would be his way back home, would elevate his status in the Bratva. It had been all but clinched until the doe-eyed young medic appeared. Since Castiel laid eyes on him, Bart has been all but invisible. 

“He’s completely in love with him.” He swallows nervously. “I don’t trust him, myself.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s too convenient. He was military and then private security for the government. Does that sound like a man who would willingly fall into bed with Russian mafia?” 

“Didn’t you say that he sacrificed himself for Castiel?” 

Bart clears his throat. “Yes, I suppose he did.” 

Ivan harrumphs on the other end of the call. “Other than execution orders, what else has he done?” 

“He’s trying to get to the hospital where they’ve taken Dean. When they said no, he insisted on seeing the warden.” 

“He’s not going to...?” 

“No, no I don’t think so.” Bart assures Ivan quickly. He’s trying to sow seeds of doubt, not get Castiel killed. “He wouldn’t use that chip without talking to Mikhail directly.” 

“Good.” Staticky silence lasts for several heartbeats. “Thank you for the update. Keep an eye out for Castiel. If this thing with the American gets out of hand, take care of it.” 

“Yes, of course.” 

 

***** 

 

Dean wakes slowly, mind fuzzy and blank. He doesn’t recognize his surroundings, but they are innocuous enough. It’s not a prison cell, and it’s not a morgue, so he counts himself lucky. He tries to sit up, but both sides of his body protest. A sharp pain radiates from his right side, centered under his ribs and extending through to his back. He sucks in a breath in surprise, and the weight on his left side lifts. His head rolls on the elevated mattress, and he smiles into the bleary-eyes of Castiel. 

“Oh, thank all that is holy,” Cas sighs in relief. “You’re finally awake.” 

“Were you worried about me?” Dean teases. 

Cas leans over the bed and sweeps an emotion-filled kiss across his lips. Tipping their heads together, he confides, “I was terrified.” 

The lightheartedness leaves Dean’s face, immediately replaced by tender concern. “Cas, It’s okay. I’m fine.” 

He lets out a humorless laugh. “I know that. Now.” 

When he tries to return to the chair, Dean holds onto his arm to keep him close. “Stay with me.” 

“Always.” 

Dean looks away. “Don’t promise that. Please.” 

Cas looks crestfallen. “You’re right, I’m sorry. That isn’t mine to promise right now. But I am hopeful.” 

 

When Dean wakes again, Cas is pacing at the foot of his bed, anger snapping in the air like electricity. Feeling it raise the hairs on his body in alarm, Dean peeks one eye open. 

“I can’t believe you would do something so reckless. You could have been killed!” 

Dean swallows around his thick tongue. “So could you,” he croaks. 

Cas grips the bars at the foot of the bed in a whitened clench. “Yes, because the man was trying to kill me! Not you!” 

Tilting his head, Dean asks, “So, it’s okay if you die?” 

Cas’s anger wilts. “It’s not preferable, no. But if the choice is between me or you? It should always be me.” 

Dean sighs. “I don’t agree, but I’m so tired, Cas. Can we argue about this later?” 

Cas stiffens like he’s been doused with icy water. “Oh, Dean. Prosti, dorogaya.” 

“It’s okay.” Dean promises when Cas sits beside him and kisses his hand. “I know why you’re lashing out.” Dean’s words become heavier and heavier, his eyes going unfocused. 

“And why is that?” he questions tenderly. 

“’Cause you love me,” Dean slurs as he fades back into sleep. 

Cas expels a pained sigh and kisses his forehead. “Lord help me, I do.” 

 

***** 

 

It only takes one day for Cas to badger the doctors into letting Dean leave the hospital, and another three days to get him out of the clinic. He’s still moving gingerly and favoring one side of his body, but he’s ready for some quiet and privacy, neither of which are in abundance in the clinic. 

In his absence, Cas had Dean’s bed re-made for him, wanting to give him plenty of room to recover. When they walk into the cell, Dean stares at it for a full 30 seconds. Snatching his pillow, he walks over and drops it next to Cas’s on his bed. Cas tries not to grin at the glare he receives. 

“I just thought you’d be more comfortable with your own space.” Dean is shaking his head before he completes the thought. 

“I’m not going to break, Cas. You already give me special treatment. Your men will never respect me if you keep coddling me.” Dean sits on the bed carefully. 

“Of course you’re given special treatment,” Cas scoffs. “You are...” 

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “That’s a hard one, isn’t it? I’m your...” 

Cas sits in the chair heavily, his arm draped over the back. “Are you asking me to define our relationship, myshka?” 

“I suppose.” 

Cas nods, contemplating. “I hate the word ‘lover’, but I don’t know what else to call you. Anything else is juvenile.” 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, there’s no way in hell I’m calling you my boyfriend.” 

Cas replies with a sour look and muttered curses. “In Russian it is lyubimyy, which means favorite or beloved.” He pauses a minute with a sly smile. “Or suprug.” 

“And that means?” 

Cas’s intense stare is meant to challenge him. “It means mate or spouse.” 

Dean licks his lips and blinks a few times to get control of his heart. “That one might be getting ahead of ourselves, don’t you think?” He manages a transparent laugh, but Cas is silent. 

“Perhaps.” 

 

Dean unleashes the word in his mind, envisions worlds of possibilities growing wild around it. 

 

He forces it to the side and gets them back to his original point. He can’t ignore their imminent reality to dally in the maybe someday. 

He’s been wanting to talk to Cas about this for weeks, but he needed to be sure that he understood what he was asking first. 

“You told me when I asked for your protection that you couldn’t offer the protection of your organization.” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it is a life-long commitment. I didn’t want to trap you into something that you could not truly give consent to.” 

“What about now?” 

Cas leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You want greater protection?” 

“I want to join the Solntsevskaya Bratva, Cas.” 

“No. Absolutely not.” His anger lights in his eyes, flames burning bright. 

“I’m not asking your permission.” Dean remains calm as Cas seethes. He hears the man’s breath turn ragged like a fearsome bull. 

“I would like your blessing, though.” 

“Why? Why would you pledge loyalty to Moscow? To a group of criminals?” 

“You really can’t guess?” 

“You do not have to be Bratva to be with me. We will find a way without you pissing your life away.” 

“Is that what you think you’ve done?” 

Cas looks away, jaw clenched tight. “No. It was the right choice for me.” 

It was the only choice for him, but he doesn’t need to dig up ancient history. 

“Then why not me?” There’s a subtle vulnerability to Dean’s question that catches his notice. 

This request is not about him, it’s about Dean finding his place. He wouldn’t ask this if he hadn’t thought it through. If he’s learned anything about Dean in these past months, it’s that he doesn’t go off half-cocked. He’s meticulous and detailed with the soul of a philosopher. 

“I’m not concerned about your abilities, Dean. We would be lucky to have a member with your skills. But it is a violent, brutal life. I just don’t want that for you.” 

“Do you think I’ve been living in an ivory tower up until now?"

Cas closes his eyes. If Dean is determined to do it, he will, regardless of what Cas wants. If he does it on his own, he will have to work his way up through the ranks and take the most miserable, dangerous jobs to prove himself. 

“Are you even aware of how difficult it is for an outsider to join the Bratva?” 

“Yes, I’ve done my homework.” Cas wants to demand the names of the men who have supplied Dean with the rope he’s using to hang himself. He feels the need to leave them bruised and bloody. 

Besides all of the other requirements, Dean would have to do a minimum three year stint in a Russian prison to even be considered. Unless... 

“If you are dead set on this insanity, you will do it my way.” 

Dean lets a smile slip, but straightens his face at the dark countenance staring back at him. He knows that Cas is anything but happy about this situation; he looks downright murderous, to be honest. Dean gives him a curt nod in agreement, biting back his customary snarky remarks. 

“My way involves you receiving a shit ton of special treatment. Are you still amenable?” Cas knows he’s treading into asshole territory, but he’s greatly annoyed that Dean has backed him into this particular corner. He should wash his hands of Dean, let the man do this the hard way. He should let him suffer if he won’t listen to reason. 

But there’s no way Cas could watch him slog through years of being beaten, cursed at, and used for the most grueling labor. There’s not a chance in hell he would allow him to be raped. Not when he can so easily prevent it all. 

Dean’s smugness turns icy, but he doesn’t complain. “Good. I will take you on as a novobranets.” 

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Cas shakes his head. “You will listen to everything I have to say, and then you may speak.” Dean wants to argue, but he wisely schools his features down to blank impassivity. 

“A novobranets is a recruit, someone selected by leadership to groom for a specific position. Being recruited is an honor that carries a great deal of prestige, but it also puts a target on your back. The men working their way up the traditional way will resent you.” 

Cas stops to walk to the door, letting his words sink in while he speaks quietly to his sentry. He turns, watching Dean wage a war within himself. He waits until Dean meets his eye to continue. “You must be fluent in Russian. I can’t get around that requirement because it is a matter of basic communication. Even though we can speak English, we don’t use it in Moscow.” 

Picking up the bottle of vodka, Cas pours glasses for them both. “You will need to learn everything you can about our organization. You will do everything that I ask of you, no matter how you feel about it personally.” 

Dean scowls at this, and takes the drink that he is offered. “What is bothering you?” 

Meeting his eye, Dean challenges, “That seems like a mighty convenient way to control a relationship, Cas.” 

“We are discussing a working relationship. This agreement has no bearing on our personal lives.” 

Dean throws the shot back, and sets the glass on the floor. In the next moment, he pulls Cas to him, one hand gripping his prominent hip bone, while the other pushes his shirt out of the way. Dean puts his mouth on the sensitive little hollow beneath that sexy arch, the tender spot that makes Cas squirm and gasp. He sucks at the skin, feels Cas surrender to his touch breath by breath. Fingers slide into the hair at the back of his head, both gentle and commanding. 

Dean moves his reverent worship toward Cas’s center. He stops to tongue the faint trail of hair leading to his ultimate destination. Using his free hand, he tugs sharply on the pants in his way. They slip down to Cas’s thighs at the same time that his shirt is whisked away. 

Cock filling swiftly, Cas widens his stance to allow better access. Dean ducks his head to mouth at the beautiful dick, reacquainting himself with the flavor and texture of Castiel. He hums his pleasure, hearing the echo of it come from above him. By the time he tastes every bit of the skin, Cas is breathing heavier, rumbling whispers of praise falling to his ears in a constant stream. 

Dean looks up into his face, his adoration obvious. Licking and sucking at the head of his cock, he asks, “What would you give me, Cas?” 

“Anything,” he promises fervently, eyes glittering with lust and emotion. 

“A car?” 

“A garage full of them.” 

“A home?” 

“One for every continent,” Cas says sweetly. 

“A plane?” 

“Dean, all you need do is ask and it will be yours.” 

Dean swallows him down, maintaining eye contact. He takes him deep, caressing the underside with his tongue. Cas groans and curses. “Christ, Dean. Fuck, you are a prodigy.” 

When Dean pulls back, his cheeks hollow to create a vacuum that makes Cas tremble. “Please don’t be mad and don’t pull away. I want to keep sucking you; I need to taste you.” 

“Why would I be mad?” 

“Because I need you to understand something, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.” 

Cas rubs his thumb against Dean’s swollen lips, dominance and fire in the touch. “What lesson do you want to teach me, malysh?” 

“Just one simple question.” 

“Ask it.” 

Nuzzling against his cock, Dean asks, “Do you really believe there can be separation between work and personal for us?” 

He carefully watches Cas for warning signs. He sees nothing but pensive contemplation, so he resumes his eager worship. Within seconds, Cas seems to have all but forgotten about his question. His hand wraps around to hold Dean’s neck, and he moves his hips in rhythm with his mouth, providing gentle insistence while he breathes out pleased sounds. 

Thrust by thrust, Dean lets Cas take control. He relaxes his throat and gives himself over, sinking into the dream-like state of complete trust. Cas brings him back abruptly when he jerks himself away from Dean’s mouth. His eyes flutter open, concentrating on Cas’s face. With lust-blown pupils, he looms over Dean. “You’re too smart for your own good, sweetheart.” 

Dean wipes the sticky spit away from his mouth and sasses, “I must not be doing a very good job at blowing you if you can think about anything else.” 

“On the contrary, struggling to think about our unique...complexities is the only reason you don’t already have a mouthful of my come to swallow.” 

Dean licks his lips as a tease. “Then stop thinking and let me have it.” 

Cas looks down into his beautiful face. When he doesn’t immediately comply, Dean opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, flat and wide. The image is as enticing as a siren’s song, and Cas is helpless to disobey. 

Ever so slowly, Cas guides the very tip of his cock to touch Dean’s tongue. He watches Dean’s eyes slip closed in pleasure. Damn. His responsiveness makes Cas feel raw, transparent and stretched thin like finely-spun glass. Sliding firmly along the hot, wet muscle, Cas sheathes himself. Bliss shivers through him. It won’t take long to give Dean what he wants. Cas is addicted, drugged by every touch Dean offers. 

Dean moans at the first burst of come, letting it pool before swallowing down the creamy release. He takes back the reins, pulling Cas’s hips in tight to let him finish deep in his throat. Dean continues to swallow, wrenching a soul-deep moan from Cas. “Fuck, Dean. Proklyatyy chelovek!” 

He finally pulls back, licking away any come that escaped. “What does that mean?” 

Cas chuckles, his body loose and relaxed as he collapses down on the bed next to Dean. “Something like, ‘Goddamn, man!’ It is high praise. It means you blew my mind.” 

Dean smiles as Cas guides him to lay down carefully. “I guess I’d better learn that one. It will come in handy.” 

Cas gently lifts the waistband of Dean’s pants, wanting to pull them off without irritating his wound or pulling on the stitches. Dean’s hand stops him. “I appreciate the offer, but the pain meds they had me on are fucking with me. I can’t get hard.” 

Worry etched on his face, Cas smoothes a hand over Dean’s jaw. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“It’s no big deal. I’ll be fine once they’re out of my system.” 

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Cas remarks, looking guilty. 

Dean narrows his gaze. “Cas, I don’t suck your dick because I expect you to reciprocate. I do it because I know you enjoy it. Honestly, I really like it, too. It’s fucking hot to feel you in my mouth.” 

Cas kisses him, careful not to lean on the right side of his body. “I want you to tell me the second those nasty drugs aren’t messing with your body anymore.” 

“Of course.” Dean traces over the tattoos on Cas’s chest with light fingers. He’s studied them for weeks, but still sees new details. His spoken Russian is getting decent, although the men often laugh at his pronunciation. He hasn’t even begun the process of learning the Cyrillic alphabet. It’s a daunting thought that he could soon be living in a place where everything is in a language he doesn’t know. He lets his mind wander. 

“You’ve never been sexually involved with anyone in the Bratva, have you?” 

Cas smiles down on him. “You would make a very good detective, I think.” 

“That’s not so hard to deduce. You’ve obviously never given thought to having one person exist in both parts of your life.” Dean scowls before adding, “Is it going to be too difficult with me?” 

“Challenging, but we will find our footing.” 

“I’m going to close my eyes for a bit.” Cas runs fingers through his hair until his breathing evens out. 

*****

Dean wakes to hear Cas talking quietly with Bart over at the desk. Neither of them are happy with the way the conversation is going. It is too quiet and too rushed for him to pick up much, but he isn’t trying too hard to translate. It’s a private talk and he doesn’t want to eavesdrop, even if he does hear his name mentioned off and on. 

All whispers cease as he struggles to sit up without pulling his stitches. “You’re up!” Cas notices happily. “Come over, I have a surprise for you.” 

Dean eyes Bart warily as he approaches. The man typically ignores Dean’s existence, but at the moment, his focus is intent and just shy of furious. He steps back to let Dean sit down and offers the most saccharin smile. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he says as if it pains him. 

Dean blinks up at him. “You’ve been accepted as a novobranets. It is a great honor.” One he obviously feels was given to Dean in error. 

“Spasibo. I will try to be worthy of it.” Bart’s smile is more of a spasm, but at least he’s attempting to be polite. With a nod to Cas, he leaves. 

On the desk in front of them, Cas has a bunch of random items: a pencil, needles, thread, a bottle of ink. “What’s with the arts and crafts supplies?” 

Cas grins wickedly. “I’m giving you a tattoo.” 

Dean’s eyes are cartoon-wide, “Wait. Seriously?” 

“Yes, seriously.” 

“Okay...” Even though he trusts Cas, there is hesitation is in his voice. 

Cas holds his hands out, “Every mark on my hands tells part of my story.” He points to the Cyrillic letters above his knuckles, ангел. This is my nickname, angel.” 

“Because of your name or because you’re so pure and sweet?” 

Cas lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t offer further comment. Dean chuckles as he continues explaining about each of the ring tattoos that band his fingers. Each corresponds to either a prison sentence or a significant part of his life. Dean is surprised to hear some of them. One is to indicate that he is a pickpocket, one is to mourn his misspent youth, another that he was convicted of assault and is considered dangerous. The black diamond-shaped one identifies him as a high-ranking member of the Bratva. The lines and dots all show how much time he spent in prison. 

“So what are you putting on me?” 

“Your first one will mean that you were incarcerated. It will go on your index finger.” Cas draws out a few options for Dean to choose from. We should also add your nickname on your left hand. 

Dean interrupts, “What nickname?” 

Cas tilts his head, “Vrach. You didn’t know?” 

Dean shakes his head, suddenly concerned. Cas grins. “Don’t look so frightened. It’s a shortened version of doctor; like doc.” Cas writes out the letters: врач. 

“The final one will be my mark.” Cas points to his ring finger and its elongated diamond sectioned into quadrants. Instead of a band, the symbol is flanked by wings. “As my protégé, you will be given the same status as a family member.” 

Cas quickly assembles his stick and poke tool, and after drawing the designs on Dean’s skin with a pen, he begins. The pain is negligible, and as he watches the patterns forming, a palpable excitement settles into and around him. These lines of ink are more than decoration. They are acceptance, belonging. 

“Bart isn’t happy about this.” 

“Bart can kiss my ass,” Cas growls. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Dean teases. 

Cas snorts, but continues the tedious poke, poke, poke into Dean’s skin. “He’s always been obedient, a good soldier, but that is all. There’s no fire there, no desire to leave his own mark. He’s content with coattails to ride.” 

Dean pulls a sour face. Cas smirks at it. “Exactly. That is why you will light the world on fire, and he will be stuck here.” 

“I hope that wasn’t the speech you gave him.” 

 

At dinner, everyone seems to notice the new ink. They take turns giving heartfelt congratulations, slapping Dean on the back or shaking his hand. A few of his closer acquaintances hug him or kiss him on the cheek. Dean takes all of the jostling, teasing, and affection in stride. On their way back to their cell, Dean mentions to Cas quietly, “I thought you said that they wouldn’t dare touch me.” 

“This is an exception. They want to celebrate, welcome you into the brotherhood. I gave my permission.” 

The thought shakes him. Sometimes he can forget that Cas holds such authority. To him, he is a man. To the others, he is closer to their god. 

 

***** 

 

Dean wakes with a hard-on, and wastes no time sharing the news with Cas. In record time, despite his injury, Cas has Dean naked, his cock coated in his spit and down his throat. Dean tried to get Cas to fuck him, but that was a line he wouldn’t cross - not until Dr. Shurley gives him the go ahead. He isn’t going to complain. Cas’s mouth is downright therapeutic. 

After a week abstaining from any touch, the stellar blow job is just too much for Dean. Too quickly, he comes, seeing stars and shouting Cas’s name. 

“Cas, I want to see,” Dean pants, still recovering from the high. 

The gorgeous, black-haired angel crawls up his body with the sexiest smirk on his face. He opens his mouth, letting Dean see the remaining drops of come nestled on his tongue. It does something to Dean; something primal awakens, and he licks into Cas’s mouth, deep and searching. They both moan at the filthy kiss that goes on and on. 

He can tell that Cas is stroking himself while Dean settles into a sated afterglow. “Come in my mouth,” Dean begs when his strokes start to stutter. Cas moves into position, looking down at his beautiful lyubimyy. He opens his mouth, tongue ready to accept his offering. The sight, once again, is enough to tip him over, and he stripes the lovely pink tongue with ribbons of white. Dean smiles around the mess, eyebrow quirked in invitation. 

“I’ve created a kinky little monster,” Cas teases as he leans over to swipe some of the warm come into his mouth. Fucked out and content, they kiss for what might be minutes or hours. The world fades away, and the only thing of importance to either of them is the man in their arms. 

Dean’s heart is full. He was afraid that once the decision was made and the ink was under his skin that he might panic and second guess himself. So far, it simply feels right; the missing puzzle piece finally in place so that he can see the full picture. 

“I need to go shower and check in at the clinic. Shurley wants to check on the stitches and re-bandage everything.” 

“I’ve got a few things I need to discus with Bart and Alexei. Will you take Yevgeny with you?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. Cas catches his chin. “You don’t ever get to be upset with me about being cautious. Not after what happened. I will not risk you.” 

Dean huffs, but kisses him. He starts to sit up, but comes back for a last kiss. “I will put up with your protectiveness, but only because it’s very sexy.” 

Dean sits up, slowly and with a lot of grimacing. As he pulls on his pants, Cas points out, “You just rolled your eyes at me because of it.” 

“Shut up.” Dean finishes dressing and grabs his shower kit. 

Cas pulls him close and whispers, “Hurry back. If the doctor clears you for sex, I want to spend the day in bed.” 

Dean hums in approval. “I’ll go as fast as my injured ass can manage.” 

 

***** 

 

True to his word, Dean showers efficiently and testily pushes Dr. Shurley to rush through his progress check. He cautioned against vigorous sex, but gave him the go ahead for whatever would not jostle his body or pull his stitches. He’d made some quite disturbing analogies to rocking chairs that Dean would not be passing on to Cas. Thinking about having Cas inside him again puts a spring in his step, and by the time he enters their cell, he’s downright giddy. 

Immediately, the sense of disquieting wrongness hits him. Cas isn’t here, but that isn’t it. Cas said that he needed to talk to Bart, so Dean wasn’t expecting him to be back yet. It’s something else. Something missing. 

The chess set. It’s not by Cas’s books...which are also missing. The entire desk is cleared, as is the shelf over it. He goes to the sink. Everything of Cas’s is gone: his soap, his razor, his toothbrush. 

Dean’s heart is racing now, panic making him tremble. He throws open the makeshift closet. Empty. Vacant. A whimper tries to bubble out, but he stomps it down. He crosses to his closet and finds everything exactly as he left it. What the fuck? 

Dean turns in circles, trying to get his head around what is happening. Cas must have left him a note. He digs around the desk, the floor, his clothes. Nothing. He looks through the sheets and under the pillows. Finally, he lifts the bed frame to search the floor, hissing in pain when the motion pulls his stitches loose. He goes back through their cell, inch by inch, looking for anything that might tell him where Cas has gone. And then he does it again, and a fourth time. Each time he combs through the room, his actions become more agitated, until he is flinging his belongings, only his, through the room. 

When Bart, Alexei, and Grigory enter the cell with somber expressions, he knows that the ache in his heart is about to be given a name. He doesn’t want to believe it. He doesn’t want to know the truth. He wants to live in this in-between place when nothing is certain and there is still hope. 

“He is gone.” Bart pops the bubble, the heartless bastard, and Dean deflates, slipping to the ground. 

He can’t give in to the emotions gnashing their teeth inside of him, ready to rip him into shapeless, insignificant pieces; not in front of these men. He has to stay in this shocky numbness. “Did he- Did he say anything? Give you a message?” 

Bart shakes his head no, and the other two look down and away. 

“Can I talk to him?” 

“It is not possible.” 

“But, but why? We have phones.” Dean uses the bed to help lift himself off the floor. 

“Did he leave his number?” Bart asks. The question shouldn’t pierce his heart. It shouldn’t, but the words might as well have been made of sharpened steel. If Cas had wanted to talk to him, he would have left a number. The things with teeth are waking up, taking their first tentative chunks out of his flesh. 

“We came to explain our ways because you do not know them,” Grigory says gently. “When leaders leave before their sentences are over, we do not acknowledge that they were ever here. It is a long-held custom with the guards and warden. If we do not flaunt that someone is missing, they ignore the fact that they are.” 

“But other inmates will-” 

“They will not,” Bart assures him. 

“So, we can’t even talk about him?” 

“No. Once we leave this room, his name will not be mentioned again.” Yevgeny looks like he wants to commiserate with Dean, but his eyes keep sliding over to Bart. 

“Ask any questions you have now, because we will not risk reprisal by breaking our code.” Bart’s eyes are dead and shark-like. He doesn’t care that Cas is gone; in fact, he’s pleased. He’s in charge now. Dean is pledged to the Bratva, and the leader in this place hates him. The man he pledged himself to, the man he’s in love with and pictured a long life with, is gone. 

Without a single word of goodbye. 

Dean’s eyes fill, and he has to turn away or let the tears fall in front of the Russians. “Will he return?” he asks once he gets a tight grip on his voice. 

“No, he will be staying at home where Mikhail needs him.” 

The teeth latch into the muscle of his heart, rending it into digestible bits. 

“Do you want me to go back to my old cell?” He might as well drive the final nail into his coffin. He won’t live long without his heart anyway. 

“No, you are Bratva now.” Alexei states. “Nothing has changed with you.” 

Dean nods his head. “What will be expected of me?” 

“You will do as you’re told, learn what you need to know, and stay out of trouble.” Bart’s voice holds barely restrained contempt, and it’s almost too much for Dean to take on top of the perfidious hand he’s been dealt by the person he’d come to trust even more than Sam. 

Dean wipes his eyes and turns, battle ready. His face is a stoic mask which will not slip again. 

“Come, Dean. I will take you to the clinic to get your stitches re-done.” 

 

***** 

 

For the rest of the day, Dean wander in a haze of disinterest. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to, doesn’t do anything unless he is asked. He doesn’t eat, even when it is suggested. He bides his time until he can reasonably go to his cell for the night. Once inside, he closes the curtains and falls into bed. Pulling Cas’s pillow into his arms, tight and desperate, he finally breathes deep. At the first whiff of his scent, Dean’s defenses abandon him. His body collapses in on itself, sobs wracking his body. 

Every day follows the same pattern. Zombie shuffle through the day, fall apart in the privacy of his cell. Only once does he wake up sobbing. He knows that his pitiful wailing was heard by his neighbors, but they are kind enough not to tease him about it. 

Yevgeny continues to be his teacher, and he spends a great deal of time working with him. He can now read basic things in the Cyrillic alphabet, but his spoken Russian is light years ahead of reading and writing. The first Russian word out of his mouth always stings, but the longer he speaks, the less it hurts. He’s spent so much time speaking to the other men in the language, that it isn’t tied completely to Cas anymore. 

After two weeks, he finally allows himself to make a plan. He found out that Bart’s sentence will be up in less than a year, and he believes that he will be going home. Alexei is the next in line to head this little band of miscreants, so Dean is setting his sights on the man to be his mentor and best friend. 

He takes shifts in the clinic, but he doesn’t trust himself to administer care to patients. He just isn’t steady enough to make it through more than five minutes without drifting away into his thoughts. 

He continually questions his own mind. How could he have been so blind to Cas’s true intentions? Was he that besotted that he didn’t recognize that Cas’s interest wasn’t anything more than physical? Is Cas just that convincing of a liar? Did he manufacture the devotion in the man’s eyes? Did Dean simply see what he wanted to see? 

It’s on the fourth day of the third week since Cas left him that Bart comes to him. He knocks on the cell door, which is weird, and then he shuffles hesitantly when he enters. Dean sits up on the bed, interested in what has the man so off kilter. 

“I have a letter for you.” 

“Okay.” Dean furrows his brow. 

Begrudgingly, Bart hands it to him. The envelope has been opened, which Dean acknowledges. Bart looks away guiltily. 

He opens it, and when he sees the greeting, almost drops it. It says, “To my lyubimyy”. An incredulous sound of denial escapes as he scans the letter quickly. Proof that he’s not losing his mind is scrawled at the bottom. ‘Yours always, Cas’. 

He starts again, from the top, and that is when the entire world tilts. The date. 

“He wrote this over three weeks ago!” Dean yells, standing up and filled with rage. 

“Yes.” 

“That’s it? Yes?” Dean gets closer, feeling strength fill his body for the first time since Cas disappeared. 

“I did what I thought was right. I didn’t want you to be disappointed when his pretty words didn’t materialize. He’s acting directly against Mikhail’s command. I didn’t think he would actually do it.” 

Dean stands toe to toe with the man. “You watched me suffer. You watched me, your professed brother, wallow in complete agony for weeks. You let me think that he left without sparing me a single thought.” His voice trembles as he gets the words out, but he manages. 

“I apologize. My assumptions were incorrect.” 

“You fucking heartless robot,” Dean snarls. He sits back down on the bed, giving the letter his entire focus. 

 

_To my lyubimyy,_

_I am so sorry to have to leave you like this, Dean. Mikhail was not pleased by the way I handled the aftermath of your attack. He believes my execution orders to be melodramatic, and feels that I need to leave ahead of schedule to keep the war from escalating. He may be right. I am too invested in the situation to be objective._

_Our plans have not changed, despite the fact that I must go ahead of you. It actually gives me time to prepare for your arrival, so it may work out to our benefit in the long run._

_We did not discuss most of the details of getting you to Moscow, but suffice it to say that it requires more than a few complications. Besides breaking you out of prison, I must get you into the country without raising suspicions._

_It will take a few weeks to put everything in place, but trust that I want nothing more than to be with you. While we are apart, have faith that you are the most important person in my life. No matter what happens, you and I will be together again._

_Do not doubt, my love._

_I’ll come for you._

_Yours always, Cas_

 

Dean looks up from the letter, pinning Bart with a glare. “Why are you giving this to me now?” 

Bart clears his throat. “He’ll be here tomorrow.” 

Dean looks back at the promise in his grasp, his heart buoyed by hope. He smiles. Tomorrow. 

 

***** fin *****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> I would love to hear from you before you run off to read another story. Please take a minute to leave a comment. It would sincerely make my day.
> 
> Also, [Find me on Tumblr here](https://angelaland.tumblr.com)


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